


Rules of Transferal

by GlassPrism



Series: Rules [2]
Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety Disorder, Blood and Gore, Brother-Sister Relationships, Gen, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-24 18:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22342360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassPrism/pseuds/GlassPrism
Summary: "When transferring a patient from one institution to another for psychiatric conditions, the patient is considered to be stable when they are protected and prevented from injuring themselves or others." Sequel to Rules of Conduct. After three years of visits, Michael Myers is being moved to a new facility. Zombie-universe, based off Halloween (2018).
Series: Rules [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608262
Comments: 5
Kudos: 62





	1. The Last Visit

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is indeed a sequel to Rules of Conduct, and just like that one, this is an AU/canon mash-up of the Rob Zombie remake, where Halloween II (2009) never took place but which draws characters and events from all the previous films. But most importantly, this was heavily inspired by the 2018 Halloween film and will feature characters and events from there - but does NOT include the characters of Karen and Allyson. I'll try and explain why at the end of the story. This was not a story I ever intended to write. I intended Rules of Conduct to be stand-alone, but the writing bug bit me again, so here it is.

Smith's Grove Warren County Sanitarium was a beacon of white: white hallways lit by white fluorescent lights that glinted along white marble floors, strolled along by patients wearing white uniforms and nurses and doctors in their white hospital scrubs. The barred windows permitted little light. There was a faint antiseptic smell in the air and, in the distance, the echoing clang of security doors being opened and shut, the jangling of keys.

It was all very different, Aaron thought, from the mental institutions he and Dana were used to.

An unsmiling guard was regarding their paperwork from behind the glazed window of his own little cell, a half-hexagonal room jutting out from the far wall. Another wall bisected the room, its only entrance and exit being a heavy metal door. The guard's room sat right in-between that wall, so that he could see, through very large, shatterproof windows, any visitors coming inside… and any patients attempting to escape outside.

While they waited, Dana adjusted her headset, connected by a long wire to her bulky recording device. Aaron saw her wince slightly at the screech of static in her ears, whirling some dials before pushing the mic towards herself.

"Testing, check, check, 1, 2, 3," she said, nudging a couple more dials. At Aaron's inquiring look, she nodded.

Aaron put on his most professional voice, ignoring the decidedly unimpressed looks they were receiving from the guard. "We are now here at Smith's Grove rehabilitation facility, one of the largest of its kind in the state. Though we have not yet entered the main part of the hospital, we can already see that it is a maze of long hallways and clean, sterile rooms, with the only noise – so far – being the buzzing the of the lights.

"Smith's Grove Sanitarium is not only one of the largest institutions; it is one of the most famous. It is October 30th, All Hallow's Eve, and today we will be interviewing Dr. Ranbir Sartain about one of his patients – in fact, the most infamous patient the hospital has ever had – and who has spent the last twenty-five years in captivity."

Dana smiled as Aaron ended his monologue, then, her back to the cubicle, gave a little twitch of the head towards the still unsmiling and possibly very hostile guard.

It was understandable. The guards here were very intimately aware of this most infamous patient.

At that moment, the light above the door flickered from bright red to cool blue, and a sharp buzzing rang through the lobby. With a heavy groan, the door swung open, followed by a rather short, but still authoritative man wearing a white doctor's coat. He could not have been more than forty, but his thick hair was already graying, his face wrinkled about the mouth, though this was covered by a rather large mustache. Dana lowered her headphones, smiling as the doctor stepped up to Aaron and her.

"Ah, Mr. Korey, Ms. Haines." The doctor shook each of their hands. "Yes, I recognized your voices, very good… And I think all is in order?" He glanced towards the guard who, with an air of grudging resentment, gave a curt nod. "Shall we begin?"

"Of course," Dana said. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with us today. We were hoping to have this opportunity to see your patient before he is to be transferred. The new facility is not quite so accommodating."

The doctor made a disparaging comment about the rival institution that was drowned out by the buzz of the door.

As expected, the hospital was indeed a warren of similar looking corridors and doors and rooms, each designed to be the same length and width as the one preceding it. Aaron only half-paid attention to where they were going, focusing on his questions – and getting all the answers into Dana's mic – as he and Dr. Sartain conversed.

"Barring one night, Michael Myers has called this hospital his home for the last twenty-seven years. In that time, he has seen two of his assigned doctors come and go, as well as over a dozen temporary caseworkers, therapists, and psychologists, not to mention being tested, interviewed, and observed by countless more. All have walked away with very different diagnoses, from catatonic schizophrenia to dissociative fugue to retrograde amnesia. I hope to be his very last."

"And how long have you been treating Myers?" asked Aaron, raising his voice over the clacking of their shoes against the hard floor. Dana wheeled her mic around towards him.

"Just over a year." The doctor had reached a door, a twin to the one in the lobby. He pulled out a card from his pocket and swiped it. With an identical buzz and flashing of lights, the door swung open. "Dr. Samuel Loomis was a colleague of mine. He was there almost from the very beginning, even made a trip to the school Michael was at when he saw the first warning signs. Perhaps a day earlier, and he might have prevented a tragedy… or seen the creature unleashed for the first time."

Dr. Sartain hummed to himself, eyes temporarily glazed. Aaron shot a bemused look at Dana, who only shrugged, hiding a smile. These doctors… some of them were almost as mad as their patients.

The doctor picked up the thread of his conversation. "Dr. Loomis treated Michael for over fifteen years before concluding that there was nothing he could do for his patient. His case fell into abeyance temporarily when Loomis resigned, at least until that night."

Aaron exchanged a glance with Dana as they slid through the doorway. Did anyone here even speak the word 'Halloween' in this building?

"After Michael's re-capture, he was remitted to Dr. Beckett's care for the next nine years, and I picked up where he left off. Or rather, where he chose to leave off. I suppose my predecessor also felt he had done all he could for his patient. I have had a long and enduring interest in Michael's history, so upon Dr. Beckett's resignation, I personally lobbied the University of Illinois myself to be assigned to his case. This way, please."

Another security door to pass through and the threesome resumed their interview.

"You have stated that each doctor has come away with a different diagnosis. What has been yours, particularly in contrast with your predecessors?"

Dr. Sartain waved them down another hallway. Through the grilled windows, they could see flickers of sky and grass – clearly, they were passing by an outdoor area.

"Are you aware of Dr. Loomis's theories?"

"Only from his books. We attempted to contact him several times, but he is off on another promotional tour. And from what we have seen from past interviews, he does not enjoy answering questions about Michael Myers."

A nod. "He wishes to move on with his life. Half his career was spent with Michael, after all. He had the most in-depth examination of his patient's state, and concluded he was a creature incapable of deciphering good or evil. A man in bestial form. 'Pure animal instinct', he stated. Dr. Beckett reached a similar conclusion but with opposite potentialities. Michael Myers might not have the moral compass of a normal human being, but even the most bestial of men, he reasoned, was capable of emotions, of feeling some kind of kinship. He thought Michael Myers might be reached. Trained. Tamed."

"And your conclusion?"

But Dr. Sartain had stopped. "And there he is."

Aaron and Dana turned.

They were looking through a large viewing glass into an almost empty room. Light streamed through the barred windows, striking the shining floors and illuminating the hulking figure. He was sitting, restrained and manacled, at a bare table that was dwarfed by the sheer size of him. His back was to Aaron and Dana, but they could make out long, dark brown hair and the barest outline of a mask, held to his head by a length of string.

"Remarkable, is he not?" breathed Dr. Sartain. Aaron thought he had never seen the doctor so alive until this moment.

It took another for Aaron to remember to speak. Not out of nervousness, of course, but at sheer amazement that he had come this far. "We are looking through a window into a visiting room. Michael Myers sits within in, shackled, caged, unaware he is being watched at this very moment."

"Oh, make no mistake, he's aware," Dr. Sartain interjected. "But whether he chooses to make _you_ a part of his awareness... that is up to him alone. Do not underestimate him."

Aaron nodded, swallowing hard. "May we enter?" He had to admit that even behind the thick, soundproofed window, the sheer presence of the man was electrifying.

Without another word, Dr. Sartain swung open the door.

There was a chill in the air that Aaron did not think was due to the air conditioning alone. Classical music was being pumped into the room, but despite the cavernous size of it, both the tune and their accompanying footsteps were curiously muffled. With wary hesitation, Aaron and Dana stepped around the hulk of a man, giving him a wide berth as they moved to face him.

Dana moved the recorder towards Aaron, flicking her eyes down at it, then back up to him.

"We are now in the room with Michael Myers himself," Aaron said, eyes fixed on the man. He tried to peer at the man's face through the strands of hair covering his face, his mask. What was Michael Myers thinking? Was he scrutinizing them, analyzing them, aware of them at all? "At the age of ten, he murdered four people, including his own elder sister. Seventeen years later, he escaped to kill another dozen, almost all in his hometown of Haddonfield. In all those years, he has not spoken a word – not said one thing in a quarter of a century."

He stared at Michael Myers, yet the man had not given any reaction, any indication that he had heard anything Aaron had said.

"Yet standing here, one cannot help but feel that he dominates the room."

Aaron regarded Dana for a second. She nodded, adjusting the mic outward once more. Aaron moved cautiously towards the chair opposite Michael Myers's. He winced at the scrape of the chair legs against the floor as he pulled it out, then sat gingerly, at the very edge of the seat – as if he were in the presence of a feral animal, fearful of any sudden move. He could not detect the slightest shift in Michael Myers's posture, the tiniest hint that he even knew Aaron and Dana existed and were sharing the same space as him.

"Michael," Aaron said. "My name is Aaron Korey, and this is Dana Haines. We've come a long way to talk to you. About Halloween night."

Nothing.

"Can you look at me, Michael? Speak to me?"

Silence. A prickle crawled along the back of Aaron's neck.

"Do you still think about that night? About the people you killed?"

Not one response.

Aaron moved forward. "Your sister."

The air itself seemed to sharpen. Aaron stifled a triumphant smile.

"Do you remember her? Judith Myers? Your mother? Or all the others who died?"

Nothing.

Aaron tamped down on a frown. Had that perfect awareness changed at all? Had he shifted his attention from either of them? Had he even noticed them? Dana had moved forward a step and was adjusting the settings higher on her set.

He shot a glance towards Dr. Sartain, who had entered and was standing in a corner of the room, observing with the dispassionate eye of a scientist. At the doctor's nod, he reached for his bag.

"I've a friend who works in the district attorney's office. He let me borrow this." With the timing of a professional actor, he drew out a clear plastic bag. Inside was something dark grey, mottled with cracks of black; something he and Dana had examined minutely, memorizing every inch of it. "Perhaps you recognize it."

Nothing. And yet...

"You feel it, don't you?" Aaron held out the bag, dangling it like a treat to a pet. The atmosphere of the room was pulsing with tension. "It calls to you." He could sense the change, but could not pin it down, whether that focus was narrowing or diffusing away from them. "Look at it, Michael."

The silence lengthened, drawn out. Aaron's nerves were on fire, but the doctor had not said a word to stop this.

"Look at the mask, Michael. Look at it."

The very air was crackling.

"Look –!"

The door opened, its screech breaking through the silence of the room.

"-be outside if you need anything, Mrs.-" The guard's voice, so discordant in its bland normalcy, cut off abruptly as he looked inside. His gaze took in Aaron and Dana, Dr. Sartain in the corner, and the bag, which Aaron had let drop ignominiously on the table.

Dr. Sartain sprang forward from where he had been standing. "Ah. Mrs. Lloyd."

The guard stepped aside to let in a young woman. She was blonde, fairly petite, in the midst of adjusting her purse when she stepped clear of the door and saw the two journalists. Aaron saw surprise flicker across her face, then something else, almost too brief to be noticed – a sharp, and strangely familiar, analysis, taking in Aaron standing at the end of the room, Dana with her headset and equipment, and Michael Myers, still as a statue.

Then her gaze swung to Dr. Sartain. "What is this?" she demanded.

Aaron frowned, exchanging another glance with Dana. It was not just because of this woman's behavior, the way she had looked at – and then dismissed – him and his partner. There was something else about her; the feeling that he had seen her before. He retrieved the mask and stuffed it away, then stepped aside from the table. Dana followed; Aaron noticed she was still recording.

"These are Aaron Korey and Dana Haines," Dr. Sartain said, "journalists for a well-known radio station."

"Journalists." The woman's tone was clipped. She glanced back at the door, then at the doctor.

"We're investigative journalists," Dana spoke up. Aaron thought she sounded a touch defensive. "We run a segment that examines true crime and unsolved mysteries. Our broadcasts have won several awards, and brought new attention to previously unexplained cases. One of our stories led to a tip that gave police several promising leads on a crime that had been deemed a cold case for several decades. We try to shed a new light on mysteries, and people, such as Michael Myers."

The woman's glance moved to Michael Myers himself. Aaron, following her gaze, blinked – had Michael Myers moved slightly in their direction, his head shifted half an inch towards them?

The woman's glance was lingering. Something changed in her face for a moment, though Aaron could not put a word to it. But when the woman looked back at them, it was gone, replaced with a still, set quality.

"Are you a visitor?" Aaron asked. He stepped closer, trying to figure out that strange feeling of familiarity he was getting from this woman.

The woman tensed, her hand grasping for her bag. "Yes."

Aaron looked back at Dana, equal parts excitement and caution running through him. If this woman were some visiting doctor or psychologist, then this was an unexpected boon, an opportunity to gain a different opinion or even to sit in on a session with Michael Myers. On the other hand, the Michael Myers case was quite famous. If this woman was another true crime aficionado, she was potentially a rival, and with Dana and Aaron's purpose and identities already revealed, they were at a disadvantage.

"We were unaware Michael Myers was receiving any visitors," Aaron said, trying to probe his way into the conversation.

"Perhaps you will be so obliged as to speak with them?" Dr. Sartain suggested.

The woman stiffened. "No."

"But Ms. Strode, as the patient's sister, you would surely provide some valuable insight into his mind-"

Aaron could not stifle a gasp, echoed by Dana behind him, as the pieces fell into place.

"Laurie Strode… You're Laurie Strode!" Of course she was; now that he had the name, the face was instantly recognizable from Dr. Loomis's book. Laurie Strode. Angel Myers. Michael Myers's younger sister, the only surviving member of his family. Her image had been splattered all over the book, along with all the lurid details of her life. _Poor girl_ , Dana had said when had first begun reading of the case. Aaron could only concur: to grow up the sister of an infamous, institutionalized murderer, in the very town where he had committed his bloody crimes… He wondered how long the woman had been aware of her relationship to this serial killer before the book came out. Hopefully long enough to have accepted it, that her adoptive parents had seen fit to let her know. Imagine if she had learned about her family relationship from a best-selling book...

The woman, Laurie Strode, bristled. "Mrs. _Lloyd_ ," she said. "I am – I was – married."

Aaron attempted to regain his self-control, as he could see Dana was trying to as well; this was such an unexpected windfall that they had to take advantage of it. He knew Dana had to be itching to go through their files on Michael Myers, to find all that had been written about Angel Myers. Laurie Strode. The only reason she wasn't was because reading case files, when the subject of the file was standing right in front of you, was probably bad practice.

"Mrs. Str - Lloyd," he said, and was satisfied that his voice betrayed almost none of the excitement he was feeling. "In our segment, we attempt to find new angles on well-known cases such as yours."

The woman, Laurie Strode, gave a little jerk and started to say something, but Dana hurriedly added, "We try to bring a more human side to the information – some new understanding that goes beyond hard facts and numbers."

Aaron stepped into the silence just as quickly. "You are the only survivor of Michael Myers's attacks – both of them, in fact. If you are willing, we would like to sit down, talk to you about how you have been affected, to shed another light on this man."

Laurie Strode went rigid. "No." It was spoken in a tone of flat dismissal. "I'm not talking to any of you." She swallowed, eyes darting nervously between the two of them. "There is nothing to learn from what happened – what he's done –" She broke off, breathing quickening, then said, "You shouldn't have come here. You shouldn't _be_ here. You shouldn't have let him see –"

A shocked pause. Her gaze had traveled down to Aaron's bag. "What is that?"

Belatedly, Aaron realized he had not pushed the mask fully out of sight. Part of it was sticking out of the opening, enough to see the dark hair and cracked, latex material. "This?" Aaron made a show of looking down before attempting to tuck it in further. "Merely a piece of evidence."

Aaron had heard the phrase 'the blood drained from her face' several times in his life, but he had never actually witnessed it before. He was witnessing it now, for Laurie Strode had gone chalk-pale at the sight of Aaron's bag.

"That's the mask," she whispered, taking a step back. "You brought that mask _here_?"

"We were attempting to gain a reaction-"

"A reaction?!" She had backed herself up against the door. "You come in here, with your new insights and understandings but all you really wanted was this, wasn't it, you wanted him to notice, you wanted him to-"

Dr. Sartain hurried forward, hands held out in a placating gesture. "Mrs. Lloyd, you need not worry. This is a controlled situation, a minor experiment. Nothing has come of it. Please, we can leave, speak outside-"

"I am not speaking to anyone!" Laurie Strode wrenched herself away, hands twisting on her purse strap.

Aaron shot a slightly panicked look at Dana, knowing the situation was beginning to get out of hand, that they were letting the best opportunity they'd ever had slip through their fingers. He said, "Ms. Strode, just calm down, we can –"

"Don't you fucking tell me to _calm down_!" she exclaimed; she was backing herself up into the wall. "You don't know what you've done, you've –"

A sound shattered the conversation. As one, Dr. Sartain, Dana, Aaron, and Laurie Strode turned towards the source.

Michael Myers had just moved.

More to the point, he had wrenched apart his cuffed wrists until the chain holding them had gone taut.

And he was looking at them.

 _My God, it worked_ , was Aaron's first thought. Next to him, Dana was frantically checking that her equipment was on; he knew she was dying to play back the recording, to make certain they had captured that sound.

Was it the mask? Aaron's words to him? The conversation between them and Ms. Strode? Aaron did not know for sure… but he had ways of finding out. He had the mask still in the bag, so surely, if that was the source, he need only hold it out again. He gripped the bag's opening as he stared at Michael Myers's back, steeling himself for what could be the greatest breakthrough of their career. And Michael Myers himself… did he seem – Aaron could not know how he knew this – more ready? Like a spring pulled to its furthest length, ready to snap? Ready for him?

And he had just moved _again_ , Aaron realized; just a little tilt of the head in their direction, but for Michael Myers, it was a dramatic shift. Yes, the mask had indeed had an effect. Now, as Dr. Sartain had said over the phone, they just needed a little more of a push.

He made to go forward –

Only for Laurie Strode to move faster, pushing herself in front of him, in his way.

"Get out," she hissed; even with her back to him, Aaron could see that her entire body had gone tense. "Go. I have to – I have to talk to him – take care of this –"

She could not be serious. He could feel the very air of the room crackling with barely-held suspense. By his side, Dana was staring wide-eyed at the scene before him, hands white-knuckled as she gripped her equipment. She could feel it too – the rising sense of anticipation, that anything-could-happen feeling. Michael Myers at the ready – it was an incredibly dangerous situation. And this woman, this girl who was small enough that Myers could snap her with one hand if he felt like it, who knew better than anybody in the world what he was capable of – she wanted to _stay_? To speak with him, a man who had not said a word in twenty-five years, who (if Dr. Loomis's book was correct) had shut down even to his own mother?

Who was this Laurie Strode anyway?

Aaron tried one last time. "Ms. Strode, if we might sit in on this, we'd be quite grate–"

"You are _not_ staying!" she snapped, whirling around. "You've done more than enough here!" There was a determined look to her face; she was moving towards Michael Myers as if she were a ball and he the string, raveling her closer. "I have to be alone with him." Her eyes flicked to the doctor. " _Get them out._ "

Dr. Sartain looked at Aaron and Dana and made a helpless gesture. He knocked on the door, which opened. A guard led him and Dana and Aaron out, but Aaron couldn't help noticing the doctor's aside glance back right before the door closed. It was furtive, so quick he almost missed it, but Aaron still saw it – the laser-focused look, mouth open slightly in… what? Wonder? Anticipation?

It was almost as memorable as the sight of Laurie Strode, walking to her brother like a martyr to execution... and Michael Myers, who, right before the door closed on him, was following not Aaron, or Dana, or his own doctor, but _her_ path with the subtlest turning of his head.

Then the doctor turned about, and he was all professionalism, so much so that Aaron wondered if he had imagined the look.

"We need to see what's going on in that room," Aaron demanded as soon as the door was closed.

Dr. Sartain nodded. "Oh, I quite agree. Come, this way."

The good doctor began rushing them down the hall, taking a right into a slightly smaller one. As they half-walked, half-jogged to keep up, Aaron leaned in towards Dana. "Laurie Strode. What do we have on her?"

Dana shook her head, mouth twisting. "Almost nothing, from what I remember." She pulled out a manila file. "Most of the research focused on Michael Myers… and I'm sure her records are still sealed and confidential." She raised her eyebrows. "Not much to go on, really. Just about everything is from Dr. Loomis's book."

"Where he barely even mentioned her," Aaron muttered, disconcerted.

Who was this Laurie Strode?

"I have some newspaper clippings." Dana rifled through papers as Dr. Sartain beckoned them towards a heavy-looking metal door. She brushed aside a glossy photograph of the Strode girl, which Aaron recognized as the one from Dr. Loomis's second book, copied and magnified the size of a full sheet of paper. The girl in the photo was younger than the woman they'd just encountered, perhaps only sixteen or seventeen, but unmistakably the same person.

Dana picked up one clipping. "Here. One about Myers's second spree of murders." She handed it to Aaron and gave a distracted smile to Dr. Sartain, who was holding open the door to what was presumably an observation room.

Aaron perused it, but it was nothing he had not already known – a list of people Myers had killed, where it had occurred, names of survivors.

The mystery only deepened. According to Dr. Loomis's retelling, Michael Myers had pursued Laurie Strode – his own younger sister – with even more persistence than his other victims; for what reason, nobody knew, though given he had murdered one sibling already, it was not unlikely that had been his intent as well. Certainly the one thing the articles agreed upon was that Laurie Strode had suffered at his hands… by all accounts, she had been found some miles from where she had shot the man herself, bloodied, traumatized, and almost incoherent from shock…

And yet, she was here, visiting the man who had stalked and terrorized and tormented her. _Why?_

Dana nudged him in the ribs, and Aaron realized with a slight shock that they were looking through a one-way window, not too dissimilar from the one through which they had first viewed Michael Myers.

"I apologize, as the room does not permit you to listen in on the actual conversation," Dr. Sartain said, "but you may at least watch. I, in fact, have had the fortune of observing Michael Myers's and Laurie Strode's interactions on numerous occasions through this very room, but never one of this... intensity." He gestured towards the room. "Let us see what will happen."

Aaron and Dana moved forward.

"We have just witnessed a rather extraordinary thing," Aaron murmured into Dana's mic. "A visitor for Michael Myers himself, from his only surviving family member – and, one could say, _his_ only survivor – Laurie Strode."

Unlike Aaron, Laurie Strode had taken a chair on Michael Myers's right. From where Aaron was viewing, she was facing almost towards him, while he could only see Myers's profile. Yet he could tell she was sitting close to Myers, quite close; she could not have been more than a foot or two away from him. Her arm was resting on the tabletop, her body leaning forward, eyes on her brother's masked face.

And Michael Myers was listening to her, Aaron was sure of it.

It was the tilt of the head, cocked towards Laurie Strode's face, her moving mouth. It was the relaxed set of his body; not the near-catatonic slump of before, but a looseness in his shoulders, his arms. His hands, which had been held taut and fisted, were now hanging unclenched at his sides. And as she continued to speak, to lean closer, he tipped his head towards hers… actually was, infinitesimally yet observably so, shifting himself so that he was facing her, only her… as if his entire body were riveted to hers.

"Quieting the beast," Dr. Sartain said.

"It's remarkable," Dana whispered.

Aaron tugged her headset towards himself. "Having met the caged animal, we received no change in behavior – no significant change," he amended. "Yet now we are witnessing Laurie Strode – the survivor of both of Myers's attacks, younger sister to the man himself – speaking to him. And not only that, he appears, incredibly, to be listening to her. One might even saying he is _responding_ to her."

There was another moment of silence. Then Dr. Sartain leaned forward.

"Perhaps she will treat us to... ah." Even as he spoke, Laurie Strode was leaning forward, hand reaching for her brother's face... no, his mask. "Unbelievable, is it not? No other person could even consider touching his mask, let alone removing it. Why, there are stories amongst the guards… well, never mind that. Just know that none of them, nor the nurses, nor even his doctors, would think of touching his masks. And yet, he allows her to, when anybody else would... shall we say..."

He made a slashing motion across his own throat, as Laurie Strode, alone with her brother, touched the mask gently. Aaron held the scene in his mind: the intense young woman, only slightly taller than her brother even with her standing and him sitting, her hand outstretched; and her hulking brother, head tilted slightly upwards to look up at her, utterly quiescent.

"I must admit, I'm struggling to understand this," Aaron said, speaking just as much for himself as for the radio. "Why she came here. After all, he tried to kill her."

Dr. Sartain smiled and leaned forward, as if imparting a great secret. "According to whose account?" he asked.

Dana's glance was almost as stunned as Aaron's. Just about every source agreed that Michael Myers was, in layman's terms, a complete psychopath, utterly incapable of feeling compassion or empathy for any creature; a totally insular, self-centered beast. Yet Dr. Sartain had just posited this incredible idea that –

"Are you saying… that _the_ Michael Myers… might actually care for her? For Laurie Strode?"

Dr. Sartain gave a little shrug, as if he had not just dropped this , astounding, completely unfounded theory into their laps. "I cannot take all the credit. It was Michael's former doctor, Dr. Beckett, who came up with the germ of the idea. As I said, he hoped to tame the creature. This…" he gestured towards the visiting room, "…was his way of testing the theory."

Now the look Aaron exchanged with Dana was one of excitement. They had been looking for a new angle; well, now they had found one, something nobody had ever considered. It was almost melodramatic, a Beauty and Beast story… Michael Myers, man with a heart?

One thing was for certain: they had to speak with Laurie Strode.

"How often does she visit?" asked Aaron, pulling his eyes away from the sight. Inside the room, Laurie Strode had lowered her hand but was still leaning forward, speaking intently to her unmoving brother. Aaron searched her gaze for any sign of hostility, of hatred. The man she was sitting in front of, her own brother, had murdered just about all members of her biological _and_ adoptive families, not to mention friends and classmates; surely there had to be some resentment on her end. Yet he could see no sign of it.

"She has come once a week for almost three years, usually during the regular visiting hours. Given Michael's impending transfer, we allowed her an exception today. Dr. Beckett has also bent the rules for her on, of course, Halloween; the day appears to be something of an anniversary for him. And she comes, quite faithfully. Fulfilling her duty, so to speak. Typically she will stay for half an hour, speaking with him-"

" _With_ him?" Aaron interjected. "Does Michael Myers actually talk to her?" Had Myers broken his famous silence for his sister?

"As far as I am aware, he has not."

"Then-" _What can she possibly talk about with him?_ was Aaron's unspoken question.

"On the rare occasions I've stepped into one of their visits, she has spoken about mundane details - her daily routine, her workplace, her children-"

"Children?" It was Dana who spoke, a note of shock in her voice.

Dr. Sartain nodded, still watching the scene before him. "It was Dr. Beckett's opinion that Michael needed an incentive to remain here - he was convinced that Michael could break out at any time, that he was simply _choosing_ to stay, biding his time until he received some signal only he is privy to. The visits from his sister and, yes, her children, were intended as a reward for his… good behavior."

Aaron heard Dana let out a small breath; beside her, he shook his head, still stunned. Children… given Laurie Strode's age, they could not be older than ten years. And then there was that other disquieting thought… that there were more Myers family members running about…

"As you might expect," said Aaron, "both of us learned about the Michael Myers case through Dr. Loomis's two books. Yet it's surprisingly difficult to dig up more information, considering how recent his crimes were. And Dr. Loomis attributes little importance to Laurie Strode in his first book."

"Yes," Dr. Sartain mused. "The other sister, he called her."

The other sister reached out again, for the mask, Aaron thought at first – but no. Instead, she had brushed a hand over her brother's face, moving some strands of hair away. The gesture was almost tender. Loving. And completely at odds with where they were and who she was doing it to.

Who was this Laurie Strode?

Aaron tore his eyes unwillingly from the window. "Dr. Loomis's second book is only slightly more forthcoming. Apart from some known facts," birth dates, adoption, all the gory details of the attacks, "he characterizes Laurie Strode merely as a victim, though an important one."

Dr. Sartain nodded. "Dr. Loomis held the theory that Michael was specifically targeting his family. He had many theories as to why. That only by murdering his blood relations could he calm his rage. That Laurie Strode bore, to Michael's mind, a resemblance to Judith Myers, or possibly Deborah Myers, and he was re-enacting his first murder. That he acquired a sexual thrill from the killings, and from family members in particular. Thrill of the forbidden." He fingered his chin thoughtfully. "Michael's next doctor held the very opposite opinion, naturally. He felt Laurie Strode was the only person Michael might care about – the closest he can come to caring for anyone."

"And what do you think?"

Dr. Sartain paused a moment. Aaron and Dana waited on tenterhooks.

The doctor said, "I think… in fact, I _believe_ … that Laurie Strode is the only link Michael Myers has to any goodness he has remaining in that soul of his."

Aaron let that hang – the perfect ending to any interview – as they watched Laurie Strode place a hand on Michael Myers's shoulder and stand.

His gaze followed her all the way out the door.

* * *


	2. Case Study

Footsteps pounded behind her.

"Mrs. Strode – I mean, Mrs. Lloyd-"

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

"Mrs. Lloyd, please!"

Pressure against her temples. "I said I'm not talking to either of you."

"At least listen to our offer!"

The pressure burst. "No! I'm not giving any interviews, I'm not speaking to anyone!"

"But surely… please, just hear us out. This is not just about Michael Myers – though you do represent an invaluable source when it comes to him –"

"Jesus _Christ_ , will you –"

"But it's not just that! This is an opportunity to tell _your_ side of the story. There is so little known about you –"

"And you think I want to _change_ that?"

A placating hand, which she avoided. "Think of what you can bring to those who hear our broadcast. To listeners who have family members with mental illnesses. To listeners who _are_ mentally ill. You – you represent _hope_."

" _Excuse me?_ "

"If you can sit with Michael Myers, a man who attacked you – if you can actually reach him – think of what that might mean to those listeners who are in the midst of recovery – or to those who suffer from what Michael has, or have suffered –"

A flinch back. "No."

"And surely you can see that you occupy an almost... _privileged_ position in Michael Myers's mind. You are the only survivor of both of his massacres, you've interacted with him for the last three years –"

"What part of 'no' did you not understand?"

"– and it seems almost as if, well, you're the only person he's never shown any notion of hurting –"

"For fuck's sake!"

"– which is exceptional in all the literature. We simply want to hear your side, to learn about these visits of yours… because it almost seems as if Michael Myers could be reformed –"

"No!" Wrenching back, away from their prying hands, their acquisitive eyes. "This is your new insight? Your new understanding? You think he's – that he's –" _Breathe in, breathe out –_ "This is – my life is not a story to be dug into! Michael Myers is not a case study you can investigate! And if I had known anything, anything at all about this, I would not have come here at all!"

* * *

Laurie rested her head against the steering wheel of her car. _Breathe in through your nose, hold it for 10 seconds, and then out through your mouth. In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth._ Once, twice, three times, four... as many times as was needed…

Her heartbeat was slowing, but the headache remained, pounding at her temples. When she took her hands off the wheel, they were still shaking.

She should not have been so hostile, but her nerves had been on fire after Michael had... moved. Laurie rubbed her fingers together, trying to still their shivering. Idiotic, to argue right in front of him. As if he wasn't there. As if she could forget his existence.

Michael's old doctor would not have allowed it. For all that he had pushed her, forced her, practically blackmailed her into visiting him, Dr. Beckett had retained some semblance of respect for her privacy. Some measure of decency. He had never allowed journalists to swoop in on the institution, though he must have had many offers.

Despite everything, she had missed him when he chose to retire. Sometimes she even wished he was still around, to talk to her; he had moved out of the country about six months after leaving Smith's Grove and Laurie had had no contact with him since. She remembered how much older he looked, his last day at the institution: his hair gone completely gray, wrinkles around his eyes and the corners of his mouth.

"I cannot say that I will miss most of this," he had said, with a tired smile. "This job drains you, you understand? But… I think I will miss you, Laurie. You and Michael." A lself-deprecating chuckle as she glanced down. "Yes, I imagine that must be surprising to hear. But I have enjoyed seeing you here, even if you did not." He had hesitated during those last words to her, all kindness and sincerity. "You know, I think you may well be the only person Michael even listens to..." He had sighed. "God knows, I don't think he ever absorbed anything from me."

_You are the only person he's never shown any notion of hurting…_

And the mask... even just seeing it, sitting harmlessly in its bag, had been... had been…

_A white-faced figure chasing after her – bearing down on her – hovering above her, bloodied knife out –_

She pounded a hand into her steering wheel and gasped as her fingers bent against the surface, but the pain at least broke through the memories.

How could they have been so stupid?

And on today – the day of the transferal. For the first time in over a decade, Michael would step out of the institution.

Laurie released her breath, long and deliberate, and started up her car, trying to let the familiar routine calm her. After three years of visits, she was leaving the parking lot of the sanitarium for the last time. Tonight they were transferring Michael to another facility, under the care of a new doctor, something-Hoffman. She did not particularly understand why they were doing so, not when Michael had been so quiet at Smith's Grove, but Dr. Sartain had assured her that the new facility was more secure, even if it was further away – at least 30 minutes would be added to her drive. Seven o'clock this evening, he had told her, that was when they would get him on the bus, to arrive at the new facility no later than nine. The facility would receive visitor calls starting at eight the next morning, and Laurie was scheduled to be there at ten.

Dr. Sartain had offered to let her come. He had even hinted that she might ride along in the bus – _it would require some favors, some pulling of strings, but Mrs. Lloyd, if you think it would help you, you may certainly see him off_ – but she had refused. She remembered how sweaty her hands had been, the tremor in her legs as she had stood there, mind tearing between needing to see him transferred without trouble and dread at him outside the institution's walls.

Dr. Sartain had done his best to assuage her nervousness. He had said that Michael would be under heavy restraints and drugs throughout the move, that they were posting several guards in the bus and at every stop, that they had alerted officials at both sites.

It did not quell the fluttering in her stomach.

It had only been a year since Dr. Beckett had chosen to retire. His reputation had never quite recovered after that day when the institution had been broken in, when Michael had unleashed himself for one afternoon. From a few off-hand comments, Laurie had guessed that he had been under some scrutiny over the whole ordeal; she had noticed a definite increase in his gray hairs and wrinkles in the months after the incident. Before he left, he had introduced her to Michael's new doctor, Ranbir Sartain.

_"_ _He was a colleague of Dr. Loomis's, very well-respected in his field. You will like him."_

And it was not that she did _not_ like Dr. Sartain; from all she had seen of him, he was knowledgeable, caring towards his patients, with a strong memory for details – he was always inquiring after some little tidbit of a patient's life, asking if a symptom had abated or returned, trying to inject a little kindness into their days.

But... when he was with Michael, she felt uneasy, for reasons she could not name.

She shook her head, pulling out of the parking lot. Paranoia. She could not let it get the best of her, but this day was really bringing it out.

After all, tomorrow was Halloween.

Her heart was starting to pound once more, and she paused at the stop sign, breathing deeply. For the last three years, she had managed to maintain a sense of normalcy on Halloween. One visit. One phone call. Her children sent out trick-or-treating with their friends and Rachel. (Not with Laurie. Not yet.)

It was not as if Michael was even being moved _on_ Halloween. Tempting fate, Dr. Sartain had said. But he had to be there before the end of the year, and there was paperwork to fill out here and more to do there, plus they had needed time getting him settled, testing protocols, and again, all to be done before January, so October 30th was the best they could do.

He had been nothing if not accommodating.

So why the twisting in her gut?

Paranoia. That was all.

She pulled into the next street, looking for the on-ramp to the highway. After she had placated Michael down from whatever mood had gripped him ( _the only one he ever listens to_ ), she had tried to return to their normal schedule. To talk of all the little topics she always used with him. Had spoken of her children, to remind him. Promised to visit, as usual. He had let her touch the mask (she knew, now, when he was ready for her to do that, she could tell now), a hand, a hair.

All so normal.

And tonight, he would board a bus for the new facility and be checked in and placed in his new room, and she would see him tomorrow. Nothing would happen, because she had done what she was supposed to. Kept him quiet. Kept him docile. So he could be moved like any regular patient, and she would see him again, just in a new building, with a new doctor. Just like before. Just like normal.

Laurie tried to tell herself that, all through the drive home.

* * *

Jamie and John had been home by the time she got back, babysat under the watchful eye of Rachel Carruthers. They had leaped on her as if she had been gone for a week rather than a few hours, chattering about their day as only eight year olds could. Laurie had prized them off just long enough to pay and thank Rachel, confirm she would be picking them up tomorrow and yes, take them trick-or-treating just like last year, before the twins were right back at her.

"Did you see Uncle? Did he talk about us?" Jamie demanded, dancing about impatiently as Laurie tried to get dinner going.

"Yes, I saw him – sit down, Jamie, come on – and you know he doesn't speak."

John pushed aside his sister – he was getting a little bolder now, less willing to let Jamie speak for or over him. "Does he miss us?"

She shushed them aside, pulling out vegetables from the fridge. "I'm sure he does. You'll see him next week; you can ask him then, all right?"

( _Four o'clock_ , she knew it without even having to glance at the clock, sun low in the sky, and Michael still in his cell, waiting...)

Not that Michael would ever respond to any of the questions the twins threw at them, but Laurie would not dash their hopes yet. Both of the twins were simultaneously fascinated by and bored with their enigmatic uncle. While visiting, they would dash around, color, play, chatter, do everything but pay attention to him, and upon leaving, throw a minor tantrum, beg for more time, wave goodbye, and immediately start bombarding their mother on when they were coming back and was he going to miss them and was he was going to talk _next time_?

She chopped up onions, celery, trying to let the familiar, repetitive movements soothe her. The twins' chatter went on, fading into background noise. Their treatment of Michael was repaid in kind by their uncle, who other than sometimes staring at them or, more rarely, dogging their footsteps on an occasional visit outside, was content to ignore them. Laurie was perfectly fine with that; it was more than enough to visit, remind Michael once in a while of their existence, and then leave without any incidents.

She had wondered a few times if he actually viewed them as his niece and nephew. Did he truly comprehend their familial relationship, know that they were connected to him? Or did he simply see them as miniature versions of Laurie, important solely because they happened to be related to her? Once, she even had the crazy thought that he saw all of them as his own little family - son, daughter, mother, and himself as twisted father figure. She had dismissed it, not for being too strange, but for being too plausible – too disturbing an idea.

She hoped that the twins did not see him similarly. Kept herself from wondering how much they even remembered of their own father, gone (her fingers slipped on the meat) for almost four years now.

At least the twins remained unaware of their uncle's reputation, or at least Laurie hoped they did. She was certain their classmates and teachers did not know they were visiting a serial killer every other weekend – at the very least, she would have heard about it amongst all the gossip in the teacher's lounge. Yet Michael Myers was so infamous that she could not quite believe that they had not heard _anything_ at all about him. Nor was the town ignorant as to his relationship to Laurie and her children; Dr. Loomis's book had made sure of that. But so long as Michael Myers remained safely locked away, the people of Haddonfield were willing to let his sister, niece, and nephew stay unaccosted. And certainly none of _them_ knew that she had been making regular visits to Michael for the last three years. Laurie had not even told the few friends she had…

( _Four-thirty_ … were the nurses and guards preparing themselves? Readying the restraints, the sedatives?)

Still, there had been a couple incidents last year... Once, Rachel had pulled her aside and told her that Jamie had been picked up from school in tears, but not said a word as to why, no matter how many times Rachel had asked. Nor had Jamie admitted to anything when Laurie had questioned her, and neither had John, whom Laurie knew Jamie shared everything with; Jamie had even denied crying. Laurie still worked at the same school that her children attended – there was only one elementary school in the whole town – which she knew embarrassed them to no end, so she usually went out of her way not to see them. It helped that she was teaching a totally different grade on the other side of the building. But she had been very tempted to follow Jamie about on one of her breaks, to see what was troubling her daughter. She had not, but she had considered it.

And Laurie knew _something_ had happened. In the weeks that followed, her daughter had grown more withdrawn, more introspective, while her son had become brasher, louder, had stopped playing with some of his friends. Once she had even considered asking her children if they knew of the name 'Michael Myers' and of their relationship with him, but she had pulled away from that line of inquiry. She did not particularly want to know, was not brave enough to open herself up to those questions.

Laurie knew she was being a coward, knew she was only delaying the inevitable – but her children were only eight and still so blissfully unaware (she hoped), so innocent, and she could not bring herself to let them know the truth. Not yet. She would plan it, she always told herself, open them up to it slowly, not the way she found out, having seventeen years of ignorance only to have the truth dashed in her face...

She shook the thought away. As the meat sizzled on the stove, she turned to her children and said, as cheerily as she could, "Now, how about you guys show me your costumes?"

As she had hoped, the question distracted them from the current topic. In the midst of Jamie showing her costume (a pretty pink princess frock, to replace the beloved clown costume she had outgrown) and John showing off his mask (a skull from a Silver-something company, whose jingle he kept singing to the point of annoyance), she somehow managed to make dinner and force down a few bites…

( _Five o'clock_ , sun beginning to set. Was Michael preparing, did he have any belongings to take, any concept of belongings? She imagined him holding a box of masks and had to suppress a half-hysterical laugh...)

…then it was just a matter of cleaning up, the twins taking advantage of her distraction to have a little fun in the backyard..

( _Six o'clock_ , and now they were pulling him from his room, manacling him, needles flashing as they pumped him full of drugs to keep him still and untroublesome…)

...Dishes done, wrangling the twins back inside to do their homework while she graded…

( _Seven o'clock_ , taking his first steps outside the sanitarium in over ten years, but only for a moment, only to get onto the bus…)

...Getting her children into the bath while she stood over the sink, staring at the lesson plans she still needed to make, the worksheets she'd have to photocopy…

( _Eight o'clock_ , safe on the bus – _please, let him be on the bus_ … Was he staring out the window, at the only bit of new scenery he had seen in a decade? Or was he looking straight ahead, mind devoid of anything…)

...Turning on the television, letting the twins watch a movie… all the channels were filled with old horror films and she had to turn away, her children too engrossed to see her discomfort…

( _Nine_ , it was nine o'clock, and he was there, he _must_ be there, and she wanted to turn on the news but she did not dare, she could not confirm it, not yet…)

…and by then it was bedtime, for all three of them. Jamie and John changing into their pajamas while she waited, waited…

She could call.

The numbers for both facilities were written next to every phone in her house.

She could call. Make sure he had made it there.

Her hand trembled over the phone.

For the last three years, she had been… normal. One phone call a year. One question asked. One very patient receptionist on the other end, used to her habits, murmuring that there had been no incidents, no alarms, that all was well for another Halloween, another year…

Paranoia.

She could not let it get the better of her. Not now, not when things were… okay.

It took effort, but she let her hand drop.

Now all she had to do was sleep, and that did not come easily.

_Ten o'clock._ Michael had been in his new home for all of an hour, and she could not find a comfortable spot to drift off. For some reason, the faces, the words, of those journalists kept coming back to her. And Dr. Beckett. And Dr. Sartain. Their insistence that she could help them understand Michael. That she was, somehow, special.

She rolled over, punching her pillow into better shape. The day's events drifted over her again, unbidden. Seeing the journalists in the room, with Michael and Dr. Sartain. Their recognition of her ('Laurie Strode', they had called her, unaware of everything that had changed in her life since then, unaware of how unlike 'Laurie Strode' she felt sometimes). The escalating argument until Michael had interrupted them...

She wondered, not for the first time, if his gesture had been threatening or protective. And whichever it was, who it had been directed to. The journalists, for angering him? Dr. Sartain, for allowing them to enter? Or Laurie herself, for… what?

_(Lynda lying in the dirt, eyes blank, red bruises on her throat –)_

It always came down to her, it seemed. That he had come after her family and friends because of her. That he remained in the sanitarium because of visits from her. That the incident two years ago, when Michael had pulled her and her children out of danger, slaughtering several innocent and not-so-innocent people, was because of her. That despite having ample opportunities to do so, he had not, for the most part, tried to hurt her.

_(Annie, her chest and abdomen slashed, gasping her name –)_

Dr. Beckett had felt that that had made her exceptional. He had talked to her about how a guard who had befriended him for years was brutally murdered, how Dr. Loomis, who had treated him for over fifteen years, had almost had his skull crushed.

_(Closed coffins for her parents, not even one last glimpse at their faces because Sheriff Brackett, eyes downcast, voice hesitant, had admitted their injuries had been too brutal to be repaired, he had not wanted her to see –)_

Her fingers were twisting the blanket.

Laurie held a breath. Let her shoulders sag back under her covers. Imagined Jimmy with his arms around her. She could almost pretend, if she twisted the sheets tighter, that it was him. _Close your eyes,_ honey, he would have said. _Even if you can't sleep, just closing your eyes helps._ Or, _I can make a call. Don't care if they don't pick up. I can make it for you._

But she could not imagine any words for this situation. He had died before she had made her first visit to her brother. No reassurances crept up, no gentle phrases to soothe her.

She wondered what Jimmy would say, if she told him that she was _special_. Privileged, according to the journalists. The doctors. Probably smile, tell her he had always considered her special too.

She did not feel special. She only felt tired.

Michael was the only family she had left, and all she could do was keep him placated and docile. And if she did not do that right, he would come for her, and even if he had no notion of killing _her_ , he would slaughter everyone in his path, and that would be on her. Because she had not kept him quiet and happy.

And she was tired, and alone, for nobody knew about her visits, nobody knew what it was to be in her… position. Not Jamie and John, innocent as they were. Certainly not her old work friends (though Mya and Harley had stopped contacting her regularly years ago). Not even Annie, who had survived Michael's attack on her, who, more than anyone, might understand the feeling of being part and not a part of the rest of humanity. But Annie would not understand why Laurie would visit her tormentor. Annie had not called in nearly two years, not since her father had fallen ill.

Laurie did not want to think about this anymore. She had a long day tomorrow (called off at work, car filled with gas, left routes and emergency contact numbers for Rachel). She needed to sleep.

_Eleven o'clock._ Was _he_ sleeping as well? And was it as restless as hers?

She somehow doubted it.

Sleep was a long time coming.

* * *

"Perhaps the most remarkable result to come out of seeing the animal in its cage was to meet its handler." Aaron made a turn as Dana continued recording. "Or rather, to discover who it is. For it is not Dr. Sartain, nor is it Dr. Loomis. The handler appears to be, of all people, Laurie Strode – Michael Myer's victim and his own younger sister."

Aaron pulled the car up to the petrol station, parking it near an open spot. Evidently it was a bit of a popular one; despite the early morning, there were already several cars and vans and even a trailer parked nearby. "We were unsuccessful in convincing Ms. Strode to speak to us – yet what we saw during her visit, the last either of them will have at Smith's Grove Sanitarium, was nothing short of incredible. This begs the question: can confrontation lead to rehabilitation? For what reason did Laurie Strode visit Michael Myers? Family ties or the opportunity to face a tormentor on her own terms? And to what extent has this changed him – changed both of them? One can only wonder what Laurie Strode can compel this man to do if pushed –"

A screech made both Dana and Aaron jump. A van, also coming by to fill up the tank, had apparently nearly hit someone crossing the street. The driver was shouting obscenities, though as far as Dana could see, they were doing it to thin air; whoever they had nearly hit had disappeared out of sight.

"We can finish up later," Dana suggested, turning off the headset. "Plenty of time once we reach Haddonfield, I'd expect." She tucked the equipment in its bag and placed it at her feet, expecting Aaron to get out and start topping off the tank.

But Aaron just sat for a few moments, frowning. "We need that interview, Dana," he said. "Or at the very least, we need to find out more about _her_. There's nothing else we can do? There's a county adoption agency near Haddonfield, or perhaps the school she works at…"

"I imagine some of that would be illegal," Dana said with some amusement. "Look, I went over everything we have on Laurie Strode last night at the hotel, while you were busy with Dr. Loomis's interviews." It had taken a fair amount of concentration to drown out Dr. Loomis's angry denials to speak about Michael Myers, but Dana was used to it by now. She used those same powers of concentration to ignore the distant drilling and clanging going on in the repair station near them. "Her birth certificate was unsealed only a few years ago. There's some information in the public records, housing, phone books, but no access to adoption or hospital records, and school and employment information also remain locked up."

She had out a blurry, scanned copy of the certificate, which stated in its rigid, evenly spaced typeface, that _Myers, Angel Cynthia_ , _FEMALE_ , had been born at _HADDONFIELD MEMORIAL HOSPITAL_ to a _Myers, Donald (FATHER)_ and _Myers, Deborah (MOTHER)_. She laid it next to that of _Myers, Michael, MALE_ , born almost ten years before his sister, and _Myers, Judith, FEMALE_ , born seventeen years before. She saw Aaron staring at the three copies, as if the dates and names could help him decipher the case.

"So ordinary," he said quietly. "Why the younger sister and not the older? And for God's sake, after everything her brother has done, why would she come to him?" He tapped his thumb against the wheel. "Do we know how she ended up with the Strodes?"

Dana smiled. "We do. Sheriff Lee Brackett. It's all detailed in Dr. Loomis's book." Her glance was significant. " _And_ he was the officer in charge when Michael Myers escaped. He's no longer in the state, but we could pursue it. Apparently his daughter was also a victim of Michael Myers." Another possible subject, that. If the Bracketts had suffered such at Michael Myers's hands, how had they felt about Laurie Strode? About her visits?

She pushed aside the large photograph of Laurie Strode, pulling out more clippings and ignoring a particularly loud bang in the distance. "And there's this." She took out a tiny clipping, an obituary. _JIMMY LLOYD, In Loving Memory,_ it stated in fuzzy black print. On the left side was a square image of a rather good-looking young man who could not have been more than thirty. A small paragraph of information followed. "Her husband. Died several years ago." Only a year before her visits began. Dana wondered if it was the grief of her husband's death that had driven Laurie Strode to do the unthinkable. She put the thought aside for later perusal. "It says he worked at the hospital she was taken to. There has to be somebody there who remembers him and can talk about her as well."

"It feels like we're just circling around the subject herself, rather than getting the answers straight from her," muttered Aaron, an unusually disgruntled look on his face.

Dana understood. Many times they had received breakthroughs just by speaking to people who had never been interviewed extensively and were eager to tell their stories. This was the first where the subject had adamantly refused to say anything.

"We still have several days here," Dana said, shoving the papers back into their file. One slipped out, and she scooped it up from where it had fallen to the floor of the car. "We'll come up with some ideas. But not if we can't get to Haddonfield."

Aaron snorted, but took the hint. "Get something for me from the shop?"

Dana smiled teasingly. "Maybe." She looked at the paper she was holding. It was that large photo of Laurie Strode right before she had been attacked; the shiny paper it was printed on made it easy to slide out. Sticking it in the file, she pushed it into her bag and headed up to the station register. Forget the shop, she needed to relieve something else right now…

Some five minutes later, Dana had concluded that American bathrooms were probably the filthiest she'd seen in any developed country. This one had probably seen better days a decade ago; now it was just a rundown mess. At least the stall in the farthest corner was relatively clean, so she dropped her bag to the floor (making a note to wash it later, but she did not think the stall's hook would support anything heavier than a feather) and went about her business.

The door of the restroom opened.

Dana paused halfway through pulling her pants up, listening. She shook her head. Just another passersby…

Footsteps. She frowned, stopping once more. For whatever reason, the treads sounded too heavy to be a woman's. And they were drawing near her, the only occupied stall.

Dana saw dark boots stop at the bottom of her stall, a trace of brown hair above it. She stared.

Then they rapped on her door.

"Excuse me, someone's in here!" Dana held the stall door closed, hurriedly zipping up her pants. She picked up her bag, wary of muggers trying to snatch it through the opening.

The boots did not move away.

The second time, the knocking was louder, hard enough to shake the door.

"I'm almost through here, if you'd just give me a minute?" She hoisted the bag over her shoulder, gripping the strap tightly. She was suddenly aware of how alone and isolated she was – how tiny the cubicle was. If this person did not move, she could be trapped here...

The boots retreated, and Dana started to sigh in relief.

And then the door shook as the person slammed their full weight into it.

Dana screamed, holding the door as the entire stall shook all around her. A second _bang_ – the lock itself was coming loose. A third and the very walls of the stall began denting inwards, as if crushing her. Abandoning her attempts to hold the door, she dropped to her stomach, crawling along the floor, the bag dragging like a weight, just as she heard a final crushing thud and the door slamming into the wall as it flew open.

A hand grabbed her ankle. Dana cried out again and kicked, felt her shoe connect with a limb. The grip loosened just a fraction, and she kicked again – this time as momentum to haul herself fully into the other stall and lock the door –

Another metallic crash, and Dana recoiled back – but this did not come from her door.

"Dana!"

_Aaron_. Hope flooded her. "Help me!" Dana cried. "Aaron, help me, please!"

Pattering steps. Dana thought she heard Aaron yell a name. A _thump_ – something clattering and bouncing – and then –

_Crash._ A tinkling sound. Dana, locked in her stall, ducked her head beneath the opening, trying to see. Reflective glass littered the floor – there was a tire iron lying against the wall, just out of reach – and two pairs of feet. One belonged to her attacker, the other was more familiar – and was being lifted off the ground, thrashing –

"Aaron!" she screamed. "Oh God, _Aaron!_ "

Choking. Dana saw a hand reach down and pick up a glass shard.

The choking became a gurgle. Red droplets splattered on the dirty floor like rain.

Aaron's feet went limp. They dropped, crumpled under him, legs sprawling. A final twitch... then they went terribly still. Dana saw the other pair stay where it was for half a second.

Then they turned towards her stall.

Fear gripped her; she did not think, except that she had to save herself, she had to get out. Fumbling with the lock, she pushed the door open and burst out, launching herself straight at the tire iron –

A hand grabbed her hair, picked her up until her feet left the ground, her bag dropping to the floor. Her scalp was on fire – then she was hurled back. She slammed into the wall, gasping – she knew a rib had to be broken, could feel warm wetness on the back of her head –

Approaching footsteps. A dark shadow stood over her.

And even through her daze, she recognized her attacker.

"Michael…"

He gazed down at her, not moving. Dana felt terror crawling up her spine. Then his head snapped around, like a dog scenting prey, focusing on something to her left. She scooted away as best as she could as he stepped over to her bag, its contents spilled out on the floor.

He bent towards it, and she saw him pick up something, head tilting once more. Taking advantage of his distraction, Dana rolled onto her stomach and clawed the floor, dragging the useless weight of her body beneath her. Each breath was like a knife in her chest, her legs had gone numb – but Michael was on the other side of the room, with Aaron's body, and she turned away, not wanting to see – so long as he remained there, there was nothing between her and door –

A hand grabbed her leg and pulled. She screeched as whatever distance she had covered was gone. Again she tried to kick, but the hand released her before she could connect, and she turned herself over, gasping.

He was holding something. Michael Myers was holding something, something from out of her bag, something familiar. Dana saw its glossy sheen and choked. She knew what it was. He was holding the photograph of Laurie Strode, staring at it with an intensity she could perceive even from behind the crude mask he was wearing.

The paper fell from his bloody hands. He was no longer looking at it. He was looking at her, and Dana knew, for that one heartbeat before his hand closed around her neck and lifted her off the ground, that Michael Myers saw her, knew her, and hated.


	3. Escapee

Laurie was not surprised that she woke up Halloween morning groggy, tired, and snappish at every minor thing that went wrong. ( _Seven o'clock_ – god damn it, she had to stop.) Jamie and John giggled and chatted through breakfast; Laurie had burned the pancakes, but they were so excited about the prospect of free candy that they didn't care. A quick check of their backpacks ("Mommy, we never forget our homework!") and the small family piled into the car, Jamie and John off to school, Laurie to make the long drive to the new facility.

She drummed her fingers along the wheel as she drove into the morning sun, turning on the radio to drown out Jamie and John's continuous arguing over their costumes. ("Princesses are _dumb_. I can have _bugs_ crawling out of my mask!" "Princesses are _not_ dumb. They're pretty and smart! _Mommy_!") Her fingers only shook a bit as she found the news station.

The transfer must have gone successfully – had to have. It if hadn't, she would certainly have received a call, right?

"...clear skies if slightly chilly weather for Halloween tonight, so you kiddos should have lots of fun. Just don't forget to put on those jackets, even if they do mess up your costumes a bit."

Of course she would have, Dr. Sartain would have let her know if anything had happened ( _if_ , she repeated to herself, _if_ , not _when_ ). It was past seven-thirty in the morning now. Another half-hour and she could check in on the new facility with a call.

"Mommy! Tell John princesses aren't dumb!"

"Princesses aren't dumb, John," Laurie said absentmindedly, pulling up to the school.

"...traffic still heavy on the 220, lighter on the 116, so for you morning –"

John leaned back discontentedly. "Princesses don't get masks though, so _mine's_ still better."

Laurie paused momentarily. "That's nice, John." As usual, there was a line of cars dropping off students down the entire block, intermingled with yellow school buses pulling into parking lots. She waited for an opportunity to slide in. "Be good at school, okay guys? Rachel's going to be picking you up –"

"I know, Mom," Jamie sighed, sounding more like her teenaged babysitter than an eight year old.

"– and taking you trick-or-treating. I've already told her you can't stay out past eight."

"Aw, _Mom_ …"

"You know the rules, John. I'll be back before evening. Don't eat all your candy!"

John was already sidling for the door. "Won't, Mom."

"Won't, Mom," Jamie repeated, following her brother.

"And hang on a sec, I haven't even pulled –"

"– police have not been able to determine the cause of the accident on Marla Road late last night. The accident involved a transfer bus from the nearby Smith's Grove Warren County Sanitarium –"

Laurie brought the car to a screeching halt. Jamie and John, taking this as their cue to get out, shoved open the door and hopped out with a chirpy "Bye Mom!" Laurie did not answer, _could_ not answer. All the air seemed to have jammed itself in her throat.

"– was believed to have been transferring over a dozen patients to another facility. Police have not provided any details on possible fatalities or on the likelihood of escaped or injured patients –"

_Oh God._

_No, please, God, no._

"– has stated that families will be notified –"

A black hole opened up before her eyes.

He was out. Michael was out.

* * *

She could not remember how she managed to drive back to her house. She did not know how fast she drove, how many illegal turns she made; it was probably a miracle she did not hit anything on the way. But all she could hear was that radio broadcast, saying again and again: the bus had crashed.

Moments flew by like frozen snapshots, without any transitions between. First she was pulling up to the driveway, turning the wheel so hard the tires squealed – then fumbling with the doorknob – then almost dropping the phone from nerveless fingers. She dialed blindly, a distant part of her shocked to hear the familiar voice of the receptionist at the sanitarium.

"Smith's Gr–"

"I need to speak to Dr. Sartain!" Laurie gasped into the phone.

There was a momentary silence. "Dr. Sartain is currently unavailable. If you would like to leave a –"

" _What?_ " Laurie's fingers were snaking along the curls of the telephone wire. "Where is he? Please, I need to talk to him!"

Another pause. When the receptionist spoke, there was a distinctly cautious note to her voice. "Dr. Sartain is currently involved in a transferal of patients. We do not expect to hear back from him until tomorrow morning, at the earliest."

Transferal –? Then Laurie figured it out.

"He was on the bus." Something else clicked. "Dr. Sartain was on the bus, and now he's..." Injured? Unconscious? Dead?

The receptionist's voice took on a still more guarded tone. "Ma'am, we are not answering any questions about the accident at this point –"

"I don't care about the accident!" Laurie exclaimed. The wires were twisting against her fingers, cutting into the skin. "Michael Myers was on that bus! Please, I need to know or talk to somebody –"

"Confidentiality laws state that we are not permitted to release patient information –"

"I don't give a shit about your fucking confidentiality laws! I'm his goddamned sister!" The receiver was rattling in her hand. Laurie could hear her own heartbeat thumping along her temples. "Was _he_ on the bus? Is he out?"

It was the longest silence yet. Then,

"Mrs. Lloyd –" Laurie sucked in a breath. The entire world hovered on the crackling sound of the receptionist's voice. "The police are still attempting to locate all the patients. Most were found within a few miles of the accident, but... they say three are still missing. And… we believe Michael Myers is one of them."

Laurie let the phone drop.

* * *

"What a fucking mess."

Sheriff Barker shook his head as he stepped away from the embankment. Deputy Hawkins could only concur.

Under the noonday sun, the accident looked even grimmer, the brightness of the day throwing into sharp relief the indents in the bus sides where it had rolled down the hill before hitting the bottom. The blood splattered along the gray metal doors was a dark rust-brown, but the splashes on the grilled windows, the drops seeping into the spider web of cracks on the windshield or hovering, dew-like, on the grass, were still a bright shining scarlet. Then there were the bodies, left where they had been found save for a white sheet to hide them from viewers.

And were there viewers, a small crowd of onlookers, rubber-neckers, and of course, the media circus. As soon as the sheriff stepped out from the confines of the yellow police tape, they swarmed him.

"Any clue on what caused the accident?"

"Can you confirm that the bus contained dangerous mental patients from the nearby mental institution?"

"Do we have reports on who has escaped?"

Hawkins turned away as the sheriff gave his rehearsed spiel. Whatever the sheriff's faults, he was at least good at handling PR, and Hawkins was perfectly happy to let him have it. If that was a perk of the job, the sheriff could keep it. Hawkins's job, the only one he was interested in, was to figure out what in the hell had happened here and what their next steps should be.

"Sir," a junior policeman had appeared at his elbow, brandishing a clipboard. "Just came back from Smith's Grove, sir. List of the patients on the bus."

Hawkins took it without a word, glancing down the typed out names and identification numbers and offenses. Most were unfamiliar, committed for minor infractions or because their illnesses had been too severe to be handled by their families. They were more a danger to themselves than to others, and the majority had been found already, wandering not too far from where the bus had crashed.

His cursory glance stopped, though, at one name, still unaccounted for.

_Myers, Michael._

Michael Myers. Haddonfield. October 31st. Halloween.

_Shit._

Hawkins shoved the list under his arm and looked around frantically for the sheriff – the man would be pissed that this was kept from him, a PR nightmare in the making – but was distracted when he saw a car come screeching past, make a sharp and very illegal U-turn between the two lanes, then park off the side of the road.

A woman came flying out the door: small, blonde hair a mess, to join the crowd of gawkers. Hawkins stiffened, recognizing her – but of course, she would come, given how intimately she was involved with this most dangerous of patients…

Laurie Lloyd, _nee_ Strode.

Hawkins began to make his way towards her, only to be accosted by a reporter.

"Sir, can you give any credence to the rumors that several mental patients are on the loose?"

_Jesus, had the word spread that fast?_ Then Hawkins forced himself to think logically. Everyone knew the bus was coming from the nearby sanitarium, so of course the media would want to make as much of a shitstorm as possible over it. Anything for more views.

"We are not releasing any information at this time," he said brusquely. "This is an ongoing crime scene and families will be informed first."

It was not said with as much panache as Sheriff Barker would, but it got the job done. He shoved the reporter aside and made his way over to the Lloyd woman. She did not even seem to notice his approach, and he was struck by the paleness of her face, the glazed look of her red-rimmed eyes.

She turned away abruptly, stumbling from the crowd before half bending, back heaving with gasps he could hear even from where he was standing.

"Ma'am?"

She jerked upright before he could place a hand on her, her own arms coming up defensively. Hawkins wanted to swear at himself, stupid idiot that he was. The woman was clearly having a traumatic reaction, and touching someone undergoing one was not recommended. They'd all had that mandatory training over it.

"My apologies ma'am…" He peered at the woman, who was staring at and yet through him, her whole body pulled tight around herself. "You are Mrs. Lloyd, aren't you?"

The woman looked at him, wide eyes going a little wider, and nodded.

"Figured you'd turn up." He gestured forward, trying to get her away from the mass of people. Yes, he knew her. He had not been the one to find her that Halloween night, but old Sheriff Brackett had, and he had mumbled, just once, about the state she'd been in when found… dazed, wandering the streets, still gripping a gun, claiming to have killed a man… a man whose name was whispered and feared by the residents still…

Last thing the crowd needed was to know she was here. Last thing _she_ needed was to have them know.

He moved back to her car. Mrs. Lloyd followed after him like a zombie, her body swaying as she stepped over a lump of grass.

"Mrs. Lloyd-"

"You haven't found him, have you?" she said abruptly.

Hawkins glanced back at her, surprised the woman could even speak in her state, or that she sounded so coherent. Whatever issues she had – understandable ones, given her background – she was at least pushing through them, he observed with some appreciation.

As for _him_ … well, there could be one _him_ she was concerned about. Keeping his voice low, he said, "We got most of the patients located. Just found two others at a nearby flea market. And the doctor–"

"You mean Dr. Sartain?"

"Yep. He was on the bus." Mrs. Lloyd just stared, eyes going glassy. "We found him in the back. He's currently unconscious, recovering in a nearby hospital. Hard to tell what happened – he might've been attacked and thrown against a wall, or might've hit his head when the bus rolled over. But _him_..." He blew out a sigh, rubbing his eyes. He probably looked as bad as Mrs. Lloyd, given how long he'd been up. "No, we haven't found _him_. And with _him_ out on Halloween... there's going to be panic."

And he was witnessing the start of one right now, observing Mrs. Lloyd's sharp inhale, the tautness of her shoulders. _You complete moron_ , he berated himself again. As if she, of all people, needed reminding.

"He's going to come to Haddonfield," Mrs. Lloyd said. Her fingers were curling against the edges of her coat. "He's going to come after me, my _children_..."

Of course, Hawkins realized with an uncomfortable start. She wasn't just here because of everything that had happened to her with that the Myers bastard. She was here because the woman, Mrs. Lloyd… she was Michael Myers's…

"He might already be there, he might –" Her sharp breaths were becoming even shorter. " _Fuck._ I have to – I have to go, I have to –"

Hawkins began to put an arm around her, then recalled his training and stopped. "Sure, you go on home, don't stick around here. We've got everything handled. Wherever that Myers… I mean, wherever _he_ is –" better not say the name, he remembered that much, try not to set off the panic and all, "he's not going to stay here." He jerked a thumb up the road and started walking with her to his car. "I'm heading on back to the station, Mrs. Lloyd, so if you want to just follow me there, we can pick up –"

But she only shook her head. Hawkins could see a fever-like flush suffusing her cheeks. "That won't stop him. And he won't – he's not coming to –"

"Listen, Mrs. Lloyd, if this guy's out there, the police aren't going to leave you on your own. Sheriff Barker's putting a curfew on the town, getting everyone in by dark." He held up a hand, forestalling her questions. "He's not saying why. Just letting people know that there's a possibility of a dangerous person or persons around. We'll have men patrolling the streets and surrounding your house if you'd like. We'll even take the three of you into the station for the night."

She bit down hard on her lip and flinched away. Hawkins would have gone after her, tried to persuade her, except that his radio chose that moment to crackle to life, demanding his attention. He sighed, flipping it open with a muttered apology to the distraught woman near him. "Hawkins."

He blanched as he listened. All units needed… a civilian had stopped by a gas station only to find a massacre, at least two bodies, suspect unknown… and the call had been made at a small town right between here and Haddonfield…

One look at Mrs. Lloyd's face, and he knew she had heard as well.

* * *

They reached the scene together, though once again too late to avoid another crowd of gawkers and paparazzi. While Mrs. Lloyd parked off in the shadows under a tree and stayed hidden near her car, Hawkins drove right up to the police tape, brushing aside the onlookers and cameras as he stepped onto the crime scene.

_Another fucking mess_.

And not two bodies, he realized as he pushed open the bathroom door and saw the shattered mirror, a pair of legs lying outstretched beneath a stall, a body next to sink. Four. Four deaths. And unlike the case of the bus, this could not be attributed to an accident.

The afternoon sun had started to fall when he emerged, speaking quietly to the ambulance drivers, watching as they zipped up the bodies into their black bags. One of his men came up to him, murmuring something he had noticed but had pushed to the back of his mind – that one of the mechanics had been stripped down to his underwear. The policeman pushed a bag into his hands. Hawkins, turning it over, recognized the gray robe and institution-issued shirt and pants.

Myers.

It was only then that he noticed that Mrs. Lloyd had disappeared.

For a brief second, he panicked – entertained the thought that Myers had just swooped in and killed her right there, not fifty feet from over a dozen policeman – before he saw her emerge from behind her car, wiping her mouth.

_Aw, shit._ He rushed over, berating himself for being so careless as to have the bodies out in full view. He reached his own car first and pulled out a water bottle from inside before proffering it to her. He could smell where she'd been sick but ignored it; he'd had over ten years on the job, he was used to green cops emptying their stomachs all over the ground after their first major crime scene.

"Here Mrs. Lloyd, here, take this…"

Mrs. Lloyd accepted the bottle wordlessly, flushing out her mouth and nose. "Thanks," she muttered hoarsely.

"Sorry you had to see that," he said awkwardly. "Should've covered them up inside."

She just shook her head, grasping the water bottle like a lifeline. For a moment she leaned against her car, taking small sips. "How –" She swallowed. "How did they–?"

Hawkins gave her a once-over. Besides the fact that this was an active crime scene, Mrs. Lloyd didn't look nearly well enough to take any sort of gory details. She caught his eye, and possibly registering his hesitation, straightened.

"I need to know," she whispered. "Please. He's my… my…"

He held up a hand, backing off from that uncomfortable thought. Everyone in town knew about her… relation, but that didn't mean they wanted to think about it. Especially now, of all days.

Not that Hawkins cared; he was part of the police, and their job was to protect people. Besides, from what everyone – Brackett, the other cops, the hospital workers – had said, Mrs. Lloyd had been as much a victim of Myers as anyone else.

"Mechanics look like they were thrown against the wall," he said tentatively, watching her reactions closely. "Broken bones, one of them had their skull shattered. The other two... the woman was strangled until her neck snapped. Looks like she might have tried to put up a fight. The man too... seems he was smashed repeatedly against the mirror, and then a piece of glass–"

Mrs. Lloyd held up a hand. "Okay. Okay, that's all... It's just..."

He nodded, backing off as she pressed her head against the car. He did not mention that the man had died with his hands near a tire iron. Evidently, he might have been trying to defend himself or, more tragically, his partner. He'd never had a chance, of course – according to eyewitnesses and doctor reports alike, Myers was a seven-foot hulk of a man who also happened to be completely insane. Nobody could withstand him.

Except, of course, for the woman trembling near him. The only survivor of his attack in a hundred mile radius. Supposedly she'd shot Myers in the head, and that still hadn't killed him. Hawkins wondered if he could ask her to do it again…

Mrs. Lloyd spoke then, voice a rasp. "I saw them. Two of them. I… _knew_ them."

Hawkins stared, not comprehending for a moment. Then – _the journalists_?

She began to speak. About visiting Myers – to keep him quiet, she insisted, a pleading look in her eyes that kept Hawkins from asking any further questions. Meeting two journalists who had demanded to speak with her. How one of them had had a mask. _The_ mask, made infamous on Halloween night.

_Damn_ , was all Hawkins could think. _Damn, damn, damn it._ This was going to be shitstorm indeed. All of it was pointing to Myers going back to his old habits: ridding himself of his uniform, finding his old mask, and murdering everyone in his way as he moved steadily towards Haddonfield.

He shook his head. "Fuck." Mrs. Lloyd had lowered her gaze. He shook his head again. " _Fuck._ Listen, we're keeping this under wraps, but you of all people ought to know – we did find his hospital gown in there. State-issued, we're making sure it matches, but I'll bet anything it does."

Mrs. Lloyd barely seemed to hear him. Her nails were scratching against the metal of the car, hands white-knuckled. "I have to go," she said. She shoved herself upright, fumbling for her keys, almost dropped them, still not looking at Hawkins. "I'm sorry, I have to – I need to see Jamie and John, I can't –"

"I'll come back with you –"

" _No._ " Mrs. Lloyd wrenched open her car door; it had taken two attempts for her to unlock it, her hands had been shaking so. "No, I can't let you – he can't see you –" She shook her head, strands of hair catching in her mouth. "Please, it just – it needs to be _me_ –"

"Then at least come to the station with your children." God, her children – how old were they? Couldn't be more than nine, ten years old… and if they were targets… well, of course her first thought would be to protect them, not herself… "Mrs. Lloyd, we can protect you –"

"No." She shoved the key into the ignition, missed, tried again. "No, you can't. Just – keep looking for him, please – and tell me if anything – you find anyone –"

"Yeah, of course." Hawkins backed away. He wondered if he should offer to drive her back; she looked in no fit state to be on the roads, but he did not think she would even hear him – did not think she would take him up. "Mrs. Lloyd, just know – we've only got two jobs, far as I'm concerned: hunting this thing down, and keeping you safe. There'll be police checking in on you all night, you hear? And I'll have them all over the streets." It was the least he could do in the face of this woman's damnable independence, her insistence on stopping Myers herself.

Then again… and he thought back, for the first time in a while, to arriving at the Myers house, finding the broken balcony, the destroyed remnants of rooms, of walls, of the goddamned ceiling… and Myers's body, lying prone on what had once been the front lawn, a great bloody gouge in his head, while his intended victim walked down the street… injured certainly, but just able to _walk_ where Myers had been blown unconscious…

So then again, maybe she was the only one who could.

Hawkins could not let Mrs. Lloyd leave without one last attempt at reassurance. "Mrs. Lloyd." She looked at him. "Please. Keep yourself safe. We'll catch him. He won't hurt you."

She glanced back at him, and this time, the look on her face was one of pity – for him. "Oh Deputy, I really wish I could believe you."

And Hawkins could only watch as she turned onto the road, driving back to town, and was gone.

* * *

Laurie could only think of two things during the frantic drive back home: her growing headache, sending stabs of pain shooting behind her eyes – and that bus. She'd almost driven past it in her panic. She kind of wished she had. The police tape… the flashing lights… and the bodies, blood soaking through their white sheets, on the bus, on the door that had been prized half-open…

She turned the wheel of the car sharply, trying to take deep breaths. Her head was pounding so hard she could hear it, a drumming in her ears. She could remember the aghast murmurs of the crowd – wondering if anyone would recognize her – wonder about her – about _him_ –

Deputy Hawkins knew. He knew about the visits now. He was kind, even though she had seen the judgment forming in his eyes, his discomfort whenever she brought up Michael and their… their relationship. Had only thought to protect her. But she could not put him in danger, not after seeing those two, what had their names been… Aaron and Dana?

She had seen their bodies at the gas station. She had passed right by it while driving away from Haddonfield to the site of the accident, but when she heard Hawkins's radio, when they had reported the site of the crime – that thought had just kept pounding at her – that he was drawing closer, ever closer to her. And those two… they were dead, their bodies zipped up into those anonymous black bags, but not before she had seen them, seen the gaping wounds in the man's head, the woman's neck flopping horribly. And all because... because –

_(Because of her, because she had not done her job right –)_

Because they had his mask, and he wanted it back. He had followed them and killed them. And now they were dead, they and all the people at this station, and it was because –

_(Because of her –)_

Laurie had just enough presence of mind to hit the brakes, because she could not see anymore, could not see anything except for a body hanging in front of her and blood spurting from a policeman's mouth – a white-haired doctor, bleeding from his ears, his eyes – and Lynda's battered body, Annie slashed on the carpet –

_(Because of her.)_

Laurie leaned forward, pressing her head against the car wheel. The engine was still on, and she let the rumble of it soothe the pressure against her forehead. Her stomach was roiling, and though she had already thrown up all of breakfast, she still felt the urge to vomit. Groping blindly, she found Hawkins's water bottle and took a swallow, still keeping her head pressed against the wheel.

Three years she had seen him, three years she had taken liberties that, according to everything she was told, he had killed others for – so when Hawkins had offered to protect her, she had turned him down not just to keep him away from Michael – keep them all away – but because –

_You may well be the only person Michael even listens to..._

_…_ _only person he's never shown any notion of hurting..._

But how correct was that? All their interactions in the last three years had been in relative security of a mental institution, under the watchful eyes of cameras and guards. Without those restraints on him… without anyone to stop him… it was just like the last time he had been out...

When he would come for her.

Her, and now her children. Who he knew existed solely because of _her_ , because she had insisted on taking them to see _him_ …

Michael was coming home, and (fingers clawing at the leather wheel) she needed to get back to them, not sit here – needed to see them around her, to keep them safe –

She raised her head, noticing with a start how low the sun was. Stupid, how stupid could she be to just be _sitting here_ when –

A flash of gray.

Laurie hit the brake, forgetting she was still parked. The figure remained, unmoving, gray mask and dark coveralls.

Frantically, she wrenched at the door handle – or was it the door lock – then looked back up, peering into the dark trees around her, looking through each window, each mirror.

There was nothing.

Laurie twisted in her seat, looking behind her.

Still nothing.

Paranoia.

No, not paranoia. Not when he was out. Not when he could really be there.

" _Fuck._ " Her own voice sounded loud in the small car. She closed her eyes. Waited several moments. _Center yourself. Breathe. Keep breathing._ Opened them.

Nothing out there.

She rubbed her eyes, almost catching an eyelash in her shaking fingers. Despite the breathing exercise, her entire body was still trembling so hard she almost couldn't shift back to drive. Her car jittered as she swerved back onto the road. At least the actual act of driving only required her to press her foot on the gas and to go, to keep going – to not wonder if she was seeing things, if his brand of insanity was infecting her. Just like the first year, when every snap of a branch was his footstep; every flash of sun against glass his mask.

Sucking in a breath, Laurie slammed harder on the gas, determined not to look right or left until she got back home.

* * *

It was nearing evening when she returned and practically dove out of the car.

"Jamie! John!"

She shoved open the door and bolted it behind her. The twins should have been home long before now, Rachel looking after them...

" _Jamie! John! Answer me!_ "

But no lights were on in the house, no signs of dinner being made. There was a distinctly empty silence descending around her, a stillness to the air that suggested that nobody had been inside for a while. Laurie dashed up the stairs, looking, though her mind was saying, _useless, useless…_

"JAMIE! JOHN!"

Only silence. _Too late,_ her mind hissed, _too late…_

"Shit, _shit_ – Rachel, if you're down there, _answer me_ -!"

She came to a flat stop when she saw something fluttering in the kitchen.

"No – no –" She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting.

Nothing, it was nothing. It had to be nothing.

She opened her eyes and let out a small sigh. The fluttering wasn't the movement of curtain against an open window – or the shape of a mask – it was just a piece of paper, taped to the fridge.

And on the paper she could see something written, in Rachel's familiar scrawl:

_'Hey Mrs. Lloyd! Took the twins trick-or-treating early, since there's a curfew and all. Will get them home in time for dinner! Hope you're back by then! – Rachel'_

Laurie let the paper fall.

It was Halloween. Michael was loose in Haddonfield. And her children were now out there with him.


	4. Boogeyman

When Jamie had traipsed out for trick-or-treating, she was wearing her pretty princess costume, hauling along a pumpkin candy carrier, and watching the sun just starting to set. She twirled her dress around, enjoying the way it sparkled, which unfortunately allowed John, wearing his skull mask and black and green skeleton costume, to race ahead of her.

"Hey!" She sped up, but it was a little hard to run in her dress – it was so soft and wispy, she didn't want to tear it up.

"Guys, don't go running off alone," Rachel called from behind them. The twins slowed until she had caught up with them, then promptly sprinted off again.

The streets were filled with little clusters of trick-or-treaters, most of them children around Jamie's age, accompanied by their parents. Jamie saw lots of ghosts and clowns and pumpkin-heads, some older children wearing masks that looked a lot like John's, and even a couple of knights and princesses like her.

"Jamie!" A hand caught her shoulder, and Jamie saw Rachel, panting slightly, at her shoulder. "What did I say about running off? And where's your brother?"

Jamie pointed ahead, to where John, mask down, had wedged himself in with another group of trick-or-treaters and was already filling his bag with candy.

Rachel shook her head. "Geez, babysitting you guys on this night is the worst."

Jamie cocked her head. "You don't like Halloween?"

"Halloween? With all you kids running around in costumes, getting high off candy, not going to bed until midnight?" Rachel laughed. "Count me out." But she ruffled Jamie's long hair, and Jamie knew she was joking.

"What do you do on Halloween?" asked Jamie. She had always wondered what grown-ups did on this day. It could not be as fun as dressing up and eating lots of candy, surely?

Rachel shrugged. "Hang out." Which Jamie knew was teenager-talk for 'doing nothing'. "Some guys like to have parties. Brady invited me to one that Tina was holding –" Brady was Rachel's boyfriend, Jamie knew, "– but Lindsey and Tommy backed out, so that's why I was open for babysitting you two munchkins." She made a face at Jamie. "Your mom's basically paying my entire college fund, you know that, right?"

Jamie giggled. She didn't know much about college, only that it cost a lot of money. But then she saw a brightly decorated house that promised lots of candy. "Come on, Rachel! That one!"

There was another small group of costumed children waiting their turn, and Jamie (with Rachel's permission) rushed ahead to join them. John was there already, and he waved her over to his spot. But as Jamie drew nearer, one of the little girls saw her. To Jamie's confusion, the little girl jumped back, clutching her mom's hand. The mom, in turn, looked down and saw Jamie – and then she gave Jamie a Look.

Jamie had sometimes seen grown-ups give her Looks, and she knew the good ones from the bad. This was definitely a Bad Look. And right after, the mom tugged her daughter and the rest of the group away, hurrying to the other side of the street.

Jamie felt a warmth flush her cheeks and chest, and it only got worse when it happened again. This time was with a group of older boys, who nudged each other and whispered as they pointed at her. Then it was with a dad and his two children, the dad glaring at her before hurrying away. She was sure John noticed too, because he had his mouth set all funny. Mom called it his Angry Face.

And then she saw Kyle staring at her, and when she stared back all she could think of was last year.

_Jamie's uncle's the Boogeyman!_

Kyle sneered at her.

_Every day is Halloween at Jamie's house!_

Behind his mother's back, Kyle made a twirling motion with his hand.

_Your uncle went crazy and your mom's crazy too! So you're gonna be crazy, just like them!_

Sticking out his tongue, he sauntered down to another house.

_He killed his sister and he killed your daddy and he tried to kill your mommy too! One day, he's gonna kill you!_

She had never told Mommy about that. She hadn't even told Rachel. The only one who knew was John, and he knew how to keep secrets, because Kyle had said the same thing to him, and she hadn't even known about that until later. There was a funny burning feeling in her chest now.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to be out trick-or-treating anymore.

There was movement behind her, and Jamie looked up to see Rachel next to her again. She was staring at the other trick-or-treaters, and she had an Angry Face too.

"Don't worry about them," Rachel said, gripping Jamie's hand. "They're just idiots." She said that part loudly, looking straight at one family. The mom sent her a look (a Bad Look) back, but Rachel just glared harder. Jamie wished she could be as brave as Rachel, who was tugging at Jamie. "Come on, let's just get some candy."

But getting candy wasn't much better. Some of the people were nice, like Mrs. Cornish who cooed over her costume, or Mrs. Elrod who let Jamie and John pick whatever candy bar they wanted. But one mother eyed John really, really hard before letting him take a chocolate, and another had a very fake looking smile when she spotted Jamie. One of them even said there was no candy left.

Rachel snapped at that last one. "Seriously? I just saw you holding that big bucket to those kids up there –" she jerked her thumb behind her, "– and now you have nothing left?"

The mother just pursed her lips. "You heard me. I'm out. Besides," she narrowed her eyes at Jamie, "it's getting late. You kids shouldn't be out here, especially..." she gave Jamie another up-and-down look. "…you two."

Now Rachel had a very angry tone. "The police didn't say anything about _him_." She was leaning forward, her voice a low hiss. "This has nothing to do with them, and even if it did, do you think this is their fault? That they want this to happen?"

The lady smirked. "You go on believing that. But my husband's on the force, and I'll believe him over any official announcement, so I suggest you get back home, especially if you're hanging around _those_ kids." And with that, she slammed the door in their faces.

"Unbelievable," Rachel snarled, grabbing Jamie and John with more force than she probably intended.

"What's not our fault, Rachel?" Jamie asked. She rubbed her cheeks. She was still feeling funny all over, like when she had a fever. The mean woman had said something about them being out too late, and she wondered if she was going to report them for breaking the curfew. The curfew was why they had to go trick-or-treating earlier this year, since nobody was allowed to be on the streets after dark.

Rachel just shook her head, the angry look fading. "Nothing. It's nothing. Let's get out of here. Just a few more houses, and then we can have our own little Halloween party back home, okay? We'll get out some pumpkins and popcorn and scary movies and you guys can eat all the candy you want."

"Okay!" Rachel always knew how to make things better.

And it seemed once she said that, it was. Halfway to their sixth house for the night, John spotted a group of his friends, and went running up to them, while Rachel jogged ahead, trying to keep herself between him and Jamie, who lingered behind her. And after a few moments, Jamie spotted her friend Billy, dressed up as a pirate, and after asking Rachel, she ended up tagging along with him. Billy didn't have many friends because of his stutter. Jamie thought maybe that was why he got along so well with her.

"H-how much candy did you get, Jamie?" Billy asked.

Jamie lifted up her pumpkin, which was barely halfway filled. "Not a lot."

"Oh. Me n-neither." Which was a lie, because Billy's bag was almost full, but Jamie liked that he said it anyway. And she liked it more when he shared a big chocolate bar with her too.

Rachel jogged ahead, putting more distance between herself and Jamie. "John! Stay where I can see you!" She sighed as John completely ignored her, too busy chatting with Molly. "Jamie, stay on this street, okay?"

"Okay."

Billy tugged on her arm. "Look at that one, J-Jamie!" He pointed at a house across from them that was lavishly decorated with fake tombstones, giant pumpkins, and ghosts hanging from the trees. People who put up that many decorations _always_ had lots of candy. Jamie ran after Billy, skirts swishing around her feet.

But as soon as she saw the Look on the lady's face, Jamie knew. This woman Did Not Like Her. She could even hear it in her tone of voice, which sounded all snappy, like Mommy when Jamie had been staying out too late. Even Billy noticed, glancing back at her with a worried look on his face when she hung back.

"It's okay, J...J...Jamie," he said afterwards, and handed her a lollipop. "L-let's go to the next one."

But the Look lingered in her mind, following her like a prickling on her skin.

* * *

Laurie was in a torment of confusion, pacing back and forth in the living room. Her fingers ached from being wrung together. She had turned on the TV, hoping to provide some background noise to quiet her nerves, but none of it could drown out the fears racing through her.

It was Halloween night, and her children were outside, with her brother stalking the streets.

She made for the door, then pulled herself to a stop. A cold sweat was breaking out over her skin. Her heart was fluttering against her rib cage. She could trust Rachel to bring them back – Rachel was good like that, responsible like that – and there were police roaming the streets – a curfew as soon as night fell – she should stay here, in case anything happened, in case they returned –

But what if they were separated – lost – and _he_ was out there… Night was falling fast and even with the evening sun it was already getting dark – too dark to make out shapes – leaves all over the streets, made it easier to hear victims, harder for them to run – no, she was being stupid, _paranoid_ – but this was how it was on that _other_ Halloween night, she _remembered_ –

She had to be out there, searching for them – had to be there to stop him – because only she really knew how it was – and it was her fault, _her_ fault –

But… what if they came home while she was gone? What if he came then, stalked them down and came to her house when Rachel was alone and unguarded – what if Laurie wasn't there and Rachel, Rachel who she had babysat, Rachel who Jamie and John both adored, who had never judged her or her children, went the way of Annie – of Lynda –

Bile was building up in the back of her throat. She shook away memories, horrible imaginings – she didn't have time for this, _she had to decide what to do_.

Because if Michael got hold of the twins, when he was out of the confines of the institution, what might he do? He would not leave them alone, did not have the capacity for that ( _seventeen years, seventeen years locked up and he had still remembered her, still recognized her_ ). Would he take them away – claim them, in his own twisted way? She might never see them again, might never know if they were gone or dead or… Or he might attack them, or worst, worst of all – might forget who they were to her, to _him_ , lose all recognition of her twins and –

No, _no_ , he would not do that – she _hoped_ he might not – but it was not just hope, she _knew_ deep down that he recognized them – he had never made a move to harm them, not in the last three years, he could not forget just because he was out –

But how certain was she of that?

A scream echoed through the room, and Laurie almost leaped out of her skin. But it was only the television; she had turned it to some stupid reality show about haunted houses, and one of the contestants had just had an obviously fake body drop on her. Shaking her head, she changed the channel, only to land on news coverage of the bus accident.

"– few details have been released regarding the cause of the accident, but police have reassured us that most patients have been found and families notified. Nevertheless, Sheriff Barker has placed a curfew on Haddonfield, which happens to be –"

Her dizziness increasing, Laurie fumbled the television off. An oppressive silence fell over the room. She tried to breathe, but all she could feel was her chest growing tighter.

For the second time in two days, she thought of Jimmy, tried to think of his calming presence. He had always been able to soothe away her fears, to talk through everything, to figure out a plan when something went wrong. But Jimmy was not there, and try as she might, she still could not conjure up his voice, his advice.

She was on her own.

_Fuck it_ , Laurie thought, and sped for the door, groping for her car keys. She couldn't stay inside any longer; the curfew was in half an hour and there was no sign of them, no sign at all – other children were already returning home in little straggling groups (none had come to her home, they never came), but Jamie and John and Rachel weren't there –

Where would she go? Where could she find them?

_It doesn't matter_ , she thought (running out the door, out the driveway, into her car). She would drive up and down each street in Haddonfield until she found them (starting the car, backing out with a screech of wheels on the pavement).

Then a thought, unbidden, came to her mind – more of an image, a memory –

An old, dilapidated, two-story house – a cavernous basement, dust in her nose, Lynda's body still at her feet - crouching at the bottom of an empty pool, lungs tearing from her screams –

She knew where to go first.

* * *

There was one other person (Jamie thought as she followed after Billy) who knew about the Incident. About Kyle.

She had asked _him_ , once. It had been a couple weeks after Kyle had yelled all those mean words at her, when her Mommy had taken her to see her Uncle. They had been allowed outside, because it had been getting warmer, and her Uncle had been sitting at one of the tables, and Jamie knew, just knew, that she had to ask him. _He_ would know, right, if Kyle was a liar (which he _was_ , she just wanted to make sure)? But Mommy didn't really like it when she or John was too close to their uncle when Mommy wasn't around, or even if she was too far away from them, so Jamie had had to watch and time her movements carefully.

When John had run off to some monkey bars and Mommy had gone chasing after him, Jamie had made her move. Sneaking away, she had walked straight up to her uncle, and tugged on his pants to get his attention (which was also a big no-no, Mommy had always said not to touch Uncle, but Uncle was so busy watching Mommy that he hadn't even noticed Jamie coming up to him).

When he (finally) looked down, she had stared straight into his masked face and asked, "Uncle, are you the Boogeyman?"

He had not answered, just kept looking at her. Jamie remembered the way his look had _felt_ – she had never known people looking at her to feel like anything, but that was before meeting her uncle. Because they way he looked at her, or John, or Mommy, _felt_ different from everybody else. And she remembered waiting and waiting and also trying to listen for her mommy, who had been busy yelling at John for doing something stupid on the monkey bars.

And then, Uncle had done the funniest thing. He had moved his hand over to hers (still grasping his pants leg) and rested it near there. She could remember thinking how _big_ his hand looked next to hers – it had completely covered not only all of her hand but also her wrist – and then he had laid his fingers on hers and, very slowly, touched – or stroked – his thumb over hers.

That was all she needed to know, and she had beamed at him, at least until her mommy had noticed what she was doing and come running over to yell at _her_.

Her uncle was _not_ the Boogeyman. Kyle was dumb and mean and a liar too, and she didn't believe anything he said to her. All the kids at her school had shared their stupid stories about what the Boogeyman did, and he wasn't anything like her uncle. Someone had said that he attacked kids who believed in him. Another had said he only attacked kids who _didn't_ believe in him. And one person had said the Boogeyman only killed his own family, so they didn't have to worry and besides, he had been locked up for a hundred years after killing so many people.

What they always argued about was what he looked like. One girl had said that he had no face, and if you looked at him for too long he would kill you. A boy had said that his face was just blank, until he was coming after you and then it would open up and eat you. And Kyle had said they were _all_ wrong and that his face was actually a scary mask.

Well, her uncle wasn't any of those things – except for the mask, but he took those off sometimes, and he looked totally normal then. _And_ he couldn't have killed all his family, because Mommy had said she was his sister and she was still alive. So she knew Kyle was dead wrong.

_And_ besides, she knew her uncle did not kill people at all. Except for that one time, but Mommy had told her and John that those were Bad People, so it was all right after all. Anyway, Jamie barely remembered it anymore, except thinking that the room looked like red paint had spilled all over it, and that there had been a very funny smell in the air, kind of the way pennies smelled.

For a little while, she had wondered if her Uncle would come back home with them. She remembered asking Mommy if he was going to their new Daddy, but Mommy had said no, in a very funny voice. She had also said Uncle would be in the hospital place for a long, long time, probably for the rest of his life. It made Jamie a little sad, because she still missed her daddy sometimes, and because she thought it a bit unfair that she, John, and their mommy could go anywhere they wanted but their uncle couldn't.

"J-Jamie?" Billy tugged at her sleeve. "W...Where are we?"

Jamie looked around. Some time while she had been daydreaming, she and Billy had wandered down a very long and dark alleyway, and neither Rachel nor John were in sight. The sun had fallen so suddenly she hadn't even noticed; it seemed like a few moments ago the sky was a shiny golden color, but now it was a dark blue, with only a pale sliver of moon and the street lights to help them see. It had rained a few days ago, so there were puddles and patches of wet everywhere.

_Oh-oh_ , she thought, _I think we're lost._

Billy twisted about, looking rather pale. "M-Mom?"

"Rachel?" Jamie also called. She tried not to step in a puddle, afraid of getting her dress wet. "John?"

But there was no one in sight. Jamie could not even hear the calls of other children and parents anymore. It was like everyone in Haddonfield had run off and left them alone. Even the houses all along the alleyway were dark, like nobody was home.

A rustle. Jamie spun around. It seemed to be coming from one of the houses, but she couldn't see anything, no matter how hard she squinted.

"Maybe we should go back?" Jamie said uncertainly. But which way was back? Behind them led to an even darker, tinier street. Off to the right and left were smaller side-alleys which looked dirty and scary, while ahead was a flickering lamp, which at least made that part look brighter – but which was totally unfamiliar to her.

Which way had they come from? They couldn't really be lost here. Jamie shivered. And they were supposed to be back before dark. If Mommy found out, she was going to be so angry with her.

Jamie glanced at Billy, then made her decision. She tilted her head towards the lit area. At least they could see where they were going. His eyes were wide, but he nodded. Together, they started to walk.

A stick snapped.

Jamie and Billy jerked to look behind them. Everything was still and quiet, but Jamie just couldn't get rid of that funny prickling feeling on the back of her neck. She had thought it was because of all the trick-or-treaters, but this felt different. Like someone was watching her.

"C-c-" Billy's stutter was getting even worse. He took a big swallow. "Come on."

Jamie hurried after him, but couldn't help giving the scariest warning she had. "Whoever's out there, I have a big dog and he bites!" Rachel had a dog and she used to say that when they went trick-or-treating on some scarier streets. Jamie had thought it really funny every time she said it, because Sundae was the friendliest dog she had ever met and would probably lick someone to death first.

Billy just looked confused, as much as he could while trying to jog down a damp alley. "W-w-e don't have a dog."

"Shh!"

She grasped his hand and kept going for the light.

Another snap.

This time it was definitely louder – and closer. Jamie knew she shouldn't look behind her, but she did anyway. It was so dark now she couldn't really see, and she had to squint really hard.

And then she saw something: a giant, dark shape standing in the shadows of the homes behind them.

Jamie gasped. Beside her, Billy turned, looked, and yelped in fright.

"Go!" Jamie said. She grabbed Billy's hand and ran, shoes slapping against the pavement. The big light was still many feet away, and Jamie's soft princess slippers skidded on the ground and almost sent her falling.

"C-come on, come on!" Billy cried out, tugging on her hand. She had almost dragged him down with her, but he had stopped and was hauling on her arm. Getting back up, Jamie picked up her skirts and ran, pushing hair from out of her eyes, not caring anymore if she stepped in any puddles. Her chest was aching but she had to keep running – though not before looking behind her again.

She yelped, turning around. The shape had come closer – close enough that she could see that it was a man, a really tall man, walking slowly after them.

"A-a-almost there!" shouted Billy, pulling harder. Jamie turned around, head thudding. They were nearing the end of the alleyway, which opened onto a street, with houses with lit windows at the end – which meant people who could help them – but only if they reached it.

Billy yelled her name again, jerking hard at her arm. She scooped up her damp skirts and pelted the last few feet, Billy in his pirate clothes running ahead of Jamie in her tangled dress – but they were _almost there_ –

A siren blasted the air, and Jamie cried out, leaping backward on reflex as a police car sped through the small street, right across her path. Billy, however, made a mad dash forward, ending with a running leap for the other side of the street – safe.

The police car zoomed forward, lights flashing, barely missing hitting Billy, and Jamie could hear a magnified voice coming from it, saying something about curfew – but she could not pay attention, because she had looked back again and saw the dark shape only feet from her –

Terrified, she turned sharply left and dashed off to the side, and on the other side of the street, safe under the bright lights and lit houses, Billy was yelling her name – and something else –

"Jamie! Jamie!" he was screaming. Then, pointing: "BOOGEYMAN!"

_What?_ Jamie thought, completely confused. She looked back.

The man had come under the beam of the nearby lamp, and Jamie saw his face – a horrifying grayish-white color, dark cracks running through the skin, and black eyes like holes.

Jamie screamed. And then she ran.

She ran down the tiny alley as fast as she could, and it seemed like every time she stepped she could hear the monster's footsteps – or her heart pounding in her ears. She splashed through a puddle and felt the cold water fly up her legs. But there was a light at the end of this side-alley – an opening – she just had to reach it – everyone knew the Boogeyman was afraid of light –

And then she ran into the fence.

Chain-link rattled as she bounced off it; it was so dark she had not even seen it. The metal cut into the skin on her fingers and palms, and she cried out as much from the pain as in terror. The light was so close, but she was trapped behind this fence, and the Boogeyman was getting closer with every second –

Then, as she spun frantically around, she spotted a little side-street, and ran towards it –

Only for a looming shape to appear right in front of her, blocking out her exit, the light – even the moon. And as she backed away, she saw his hands, which were bumpy, with dark stuff all over it – and a knife, flashing in the dim light.

Jamie shrieked and stumbled back into the fence as the shape circled in front of her. She felt the links snagging against her dress, ripping it when she moved. The shape kept moving forward at a slow walk – circling her. She pushed herself as far back into the fence as she could, curling against the wet ground, the metal digging into her back. There was nowhere else to go, he was only a few feet from her, the dark pits of his eyes boring into her.

She covered her eyes and whimpered. " _Please_ –"

Then she waited.

Nothing.

Jamie shrank back still further, waiting for pain – but still nothing happened.

Slowly, she uncovered her eyes.

The figure had stopped. He was just standing there, head angled down to look at her. Jamie uncurled herself just a little, then more when he still didn't do anything. She got shakily to her feet, scared, confused, but also feeling just the littlest bit stupid. She stared up at the man for another moment, not sure what to do. Was it something she had said? And what was she supposed to do now?

"Boogeyman?" she tried.

The man's head tilted – and a sudden, unexpected pang of familiarity shot through Jamie.

"What do you –" she began to say, until the man stepped forward, and the light fell on him more clearly.

That wasn't a face, she realized, seeing the edges of it now, the eye holes, the places where it had cracked. It was a mask.

A mask...

_Jamie! Boogeyman!_

And there was something else. It was the way he moved –

_Every day is Halloween at Jamie's house!_

– and the way he looked at her –

_Jamie's uncle's the Boogeyman!_

– and the way that look _felt_...

_...are you the Boogeyman?_

Jamie craned her head up at the man (tall, he was so tall, just like _him_ ), her chest feeling like it was fluttering.

She said, "Uncle?"

He moved forward, then stopped less than a foot from her, towering over her. Jamie kept looking up at him, not feeling quite so afraid anymore – because she was sure, she was sure this was him, this was her _uncle_. Mommy had said he'd be in the hospital forever and all they could do was visit him, but maybe she was wrong, maybe he'd come out to visit _them_.

Then she saw her uncle stretch out his hand towards her, the one not holding a knife. He hesitated, his palm up. Beckoning.

Jamie stared. And remembered.

She got up off the fence, walking closer to her uncle, who did not move, and lifted her own arm towards him.

Lights flashed over them, behind her, blinding her with their brightness. Tires squealed, sirens shrieked in her ears. When Jamie flung herself around, arm thrown up to shield her eyes, she saw the police car on the other side of the fence, blue and red headlights spinning.

"Don't move!" a voice shouted. It sounded very loud.

Jamie froze where she was.

The doors of the car opened, and from inside clambered out a policeman and an old man, his arm in a sling.

"Jamie Lloyd?" The policeman, who she could still barely see with all the bright, flashing lights, held up a hand. "It's Deputy Hawkins! Stay right where you are, I'm coming to get you!"

Police? Police were here? To get her? Was she in trouble?

And what about her uncle?

Forgetting that she had just been told not to move, she turned around.

Her uncle was gone.

The policeman shouted, "Stay where I can see you, Jamie!" He raised his flashlight, began moving around the fence. "You're safe now. Just stay put while I find a way around. There's no need to be scared. Dr. Sartain here will watch you."


	5. Murderer

When John ran out, ready for trick-or-treating in his skull mask and skeleton costume, the sun was just beginning to set, Jamie was trying to keep up with him, and Rachel was lagging behind both of them.

"Hey!" Jamie yelled as he out-distanced her. He stuck his mask on so that Jamie could not see his face, trying not to laugh as she did a funny run-skip to keep from tripping over her costume. She noticed anyway, and glared.

"Guys, don't go running off alone," Rachel called from behind them. John and Jamie slowed for all of one second before taking off across the lawn, their yells joining that of the other children all out on Halloween. For a few moments, John just observed everyone in their costumes, the decorations on the houses, the cool evening air blowing through the holes of his mask. There was one group with some really cool costumes – he saw a knight whose armor actually looked shiny, a wolf man with real fur glued on, and a girl holding a laser sword. He ran ahead to join them in getting some candy, leaving Jamie with Rachel.

"What a scary bunch of monsters!" the lady cooed, passing out candy – and not just one per person, but two, even three. Grabbing his share, John waved Jamie to come over, then ran on to another house to see what they were giving out. There was some other kids waiting already, and he pressed himself into their group, then looked around for his twin. If this kept up, they would both have enough candy to last them for days. Maybe even _weeks_.

Jamie was staring at something though, her face all funny. When John followed her gaze, he saw a group of smaller trick-or-treaters, all of them goggline at her. He pushed his mask up – it was hard to see through the eye holes – and ran over to Jamie. But before he could do anything, the little group jerked back, looking scared. Their mother took one look at John, and her face changed. It changed into what Jamie sometimes called a Bad Look.

John just called it the Face.

John felt a heat growing along his ears and cheeks. He had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to not say anything. Mom was already angry at him because he had gotten in trouble for talking back at school.

But it only got worse when he saw stupid Kyle – or rather, when he saw that Jamie had seen Kyle.

John jerked his mask back over his face so Kyle wouldn't recognize him, but Jamie didn't have a mask, and he knew Kyle had seen her. He wanted to pull Jamie away, but knowing Kyle, he would probably just follow them. Jamie had told him what Kyle had said to her at school, and asked him not to tell Mom about it. He hadn't, because sometimes there were things you just don't tell your mom.

But Jamie didn't have Kyle in her class. She didn't know what he would say to John.

_Your uncle's the Devil!_

Kyle made a wagging motion at Jamie, then grinned and hopped off to get his candy. John saw Jamie grab her basket very tightly, her face all screwy, and he felt the heat burn inside himself.

_Your uncle is Michael Myers, isn't he?_

_I heard he killed his sister._

_He killed both his parents_ and _his sister!_

_And then he went crazy and they locked him up!_

And the worse thing was that John was pretty sure Kyle was right. And that Mom had not told them, or – much, much worse – that she had lied to him and Jamie about their uncle.

He had not even told Jamie about this.

Wearing the mask had made things a little better for John, because nobody knew who he was with a mask on, but Jamie couldn't hide herself, and whenever someone looked at her with that Face, they would then look at John and notice he was with her and he would get the same Face. The more John saw it, the angrier he felt. This was how it had been since he could remember. Funny looks on his teacher's faces. Classmates whispering about him. Parents frowning when they thought he wasn't looking, with strange smiles when he was. Sometimes even Mommy, though he knew Mommy didn't mean it. Jamie didn't notice, but John always had.

Then he realized he had walked really, really far ahead of Jamie and Rachel, and stopped to let them catch up. Rachel, who had been whispering something to Jamie, smiled as he joined them and pointed them to some more houses. But when more people just kept looking at them, with that Face that made John so mad, even Rachel started getting a bit angry.

"Seriously?" she snapped, when one woman didn't have any candy. "I just saw you holding that big bucket to those kids up there, and now you have nothing left?"

John bit his lip hard under his mask, turning away. The woman was muttering something to Rachel, but John did not really care what she was saying. Halloween had lost its fun for him.

A hand grabbed John's arm, jerking a little harder than necessary. "Unbelievable," Rachel snarled above him.

"What's not our fault, Rachel?" Jamie asked.

Rachel answered something, but John had stopped paying attention. He had just recognized a shock of blonde, curly hair in a group up ahead.

The owner of that blonde hair waved. "Hi John!"

John waved furiously back, the anger disappearing. Now all he felt was a warm flush inside his chest. He turned his masked face up to Rachel's. "Rachel, can I go with Molly?"

"Okay, but stay close, all right?"

"'Kay!" He dashed off, almost bumping into Molly.

She grinned at him; she had dressed up as Red Riding Hood, which did nothing to hold her hair. "Have you got a lot of candy?"

"Kind of." His bag was only half-full, and it definitely looked the emptiest compared to Molly, and even more so with Sarah and Charlie, two other friends of theirs who had dressed up as a witch and cowboy.

Molly wordlessly dumped part of hers into his bag, much to Charlie and Sarah's shock.

"What are you doing?" Charlie yelped.

"You don't share your candy!" Sarah exclaimed.

"But I want to," Molly said. "There's a lot more houses anyway."

Charlie rolled his eyes in a way that reminded John, somewhat unpleasantly, of Kyle. "Well, guess we better go then, before they all run out." Which only reminded John of the nasty woman who had argued with Rachel. It made him feel hot inside – but he didn't like feeling that way, especially around Molly and his friends, so he tried to forget it. He smiled his thanks at Molly, who smiled back.

He was glad he knew Molly. She didn't talk too much, but she always sat next to him at lunch, or picked him for her team for softball, or tried to give him answers on homework, which made _him_ try to share more with her, like when her dad forgot to pack her a lunch, or when she didn't have a pencil or paper at school. She was quiet, like him, and she only had her dad, just like John only had his mom. (He didn't really remember his dad anymore, it had been so long. Now, he mainly remembered... but he didn't quite want to think about that right now.)

"John!" he heard Rachel shout somewhere behind him. "Stay where I can see you!"

Charlie laughed. "Is that your babysitter?"

"Yeah." Which reminded John that his mom was out, visiting their uncle, which reminded him of –

_Ugh._ He rubbed his head, knocking his mask slightly askew.

"Come on, let's get more candy!" Sarah urged. Mood lifting a bit, John re-adjusted his mask and, after waiting a moment for Rachel, took off with his friends.

* * *

The Myers house looked as foreboding as it did in her memories.

Rationally, Laurie knew it had been over a decade since she was last here. She knew nobody had set foot here, apart from dumb teenagers looking to fulfill a dare. Yet a part of her kept expecting to see blood on the front lawn, a gun lying on the ground, a body...

She shook away the memories and pushed open the gate. Night had fallen fast, sending an eerie gloom around the property. Despite the lamps nearby, the house felt like a black hole, sucking in all light. Leaves crunched under Laurie's shoes as she moved across the cracked walkway.

Since that Halloween night, the house had become even more infamous, and with her father's death, there had been nobody to even attempt to maintain it, other than perhaps a lone groundskeeper sent out by the city to do some minor upkeep. The boarded up windows were showing signs of rot, the roof tiles were coming loose and scattering on the dead lawn, and in one corner, she could see graffiti, too faint to make out. And the more the house fell apart, the less likely anybody wanted to buy it. Laurie had some relatives, a cousin or uncle or somebody, who had been interested in purchasing it with his family, but that had fallen through, just like every other offer. They were living in another town now.

She wondered if the house now technically belonged to her…

Laurie took a breath, then another, as she stepped near the porch.

A board shattered beneath her foot, and Laurie leaped back, heart pounding out of her chest. She waited, trembling, for… what? A neighbor to wonder what she was doing? Michael to step out from hiding inside the house?

But nothing happened. The night resumed its eerie quiet.

Laurie let out a shaky gasp, swallowing. She looked up, more to stave off the moment she would have to walk in. Above, she could see the broken balcony where Michael had hurled both of them out of the house. She let out another breath, trying not to let the memories overwhelm her.

She had never known what his intent was then – killing her? Killing himself? Killing them both? Whatever it was, it had not worked… and he had not attempted anything similar in the last three years. Did that have anything to do with her visits? Or had it been a rash – if that word could be applied to him – action, attempted once in a fit of madness – though he was already insane – and then abandoned? Or maybe he had just decided she was too hard to kill.

Once, Michael's former doctor had thought that nobody understood Michael like she did... well, she would certainly contradict him on that point...

And she still had no idea what his intent was now that he was... out. What was he willing to do to get to her? Her children? Would the rush of sudden freedom, after ten years locked up, completely warp the remnants of his mind? Make him pick up where he had left off, murdering her and everyone she loved?

And now that he was... home ( _but not her home, never her home_ ), how would that affect him? Would it be another horrifying family reunion, down in the dusty basement? Or would he lock her and her children up, trapped forever in this ruin of a house...

_Breathe. Breathe._

She stepped back on the porch now ( _Michael dragging her out of the car, arm strangling the oxygen from her lungs and scared, so scared_ ). There were no signs of forced entry, no broken windows or ripped off handles. She reached for the front doorknob and pulled.

It was locked.

Laurie let out a small breath, but the pressure in her chest only increased. She wondered if it might have been better if it had been open; then she could at least have confirmation that Michael had returned.

"Hello?" she called softly. "Jamie? John?"

Nothing.

Laurie considered just pushing door and going in anyway – the sidings and frame looked rotted enough that she thought she could do it – but she hesitated at breaking and entering when she had no idea if Michael was there, even if it was a long-abandoned house. Instead she left the porch and headed towards the backyard, skirting the empty pool, its bottom partially filled with decaying leaves ( _kneeling on the dirt, nails cracked from clawing the walls, watching for any sign of the killer, screaming, screaming until her throat burned_ ). There was a back door, but it too was locked. She gave it a good rattle, then let silence fall.

"Jamie?" she called, more desperately. "John?"

Had Michael returned here and left? Had he come here at all? Was he even in Haddonfield, stalking her, tormenting her?

She didn't know. And there was only one place left for her to go.

Laurie moved off the back porch for the walls of the house. Just a few feet away was a small door, set into the dirt and lying at an angle to the ground.

The basement.

She grabbed the handle – there was no lock – and threw it open, sending dust flying into her face. Coughing slightly, she waved it aside, then peeked down.

"Hello?"

It was even darker underground than it was above, so she had to wait to let her eyes adjust – and to calm the pounding of her heart.

(N _ails breaking as she scraped at the fence – the wall bursting in a shower of splintered wood – bloodied hands grabbing at her, knife slashing the air –_ )

Her fingers were digging into her skin, and she had to will herself to let go. Release.

"John? Jamie? Please –" She couldn't finish. And there was no response.

Gingerly, she stepped down the rickety wooden stairs, every creak sending palpitations through her chest. The tight stairway opened to a cavernous room, thick with soil and filth and mold. In the tiny shafts of moonlight that broke through the narrow windows, she could see particles of dust floating in the air. It had a rank, undisturbed quality; the soft dirt of over two decades of lack of care muffled her footsteps. She was glad; she doubted she could have heard anyone creeping up on her over her shaky breaths.

"Hello?" she whispered. Even her voice sounded stifled. "Somebody..."

A creak from above almost made her leap out of her skin. She stared up at the wooden slats, frozen, but heard nothing else, saw no shadow pass between the narrow spaces. Someone above, or just the wind?

There was another set of stairs leading to the ground floor of the house. Shakily, she made her way up them, squinting to try and see through the puffs of dust her footsteps kept sending up. Was she seeing other footsteps imprinted in the dirt, or was it just her fevered imagination? It was so hard to make out in the gloom; every time she tried to focus on some detail in her peripheral vision, it would dissolve into black graininess.

The steps led to an empty room near the front of the house, which she thought might have been a family room or den. At least it was a bit lighter; the windows might have been boarded up, but above ground, they afforded a bit more moonlight to guide her way.

And now she could see – footsteps. Recent ones, large ones, that weren't her own.

_He_ had been here.

Laurie crouched almost to the floor, desperate not to lose sight of those tracks.

"Hello?" she called out once more. "Jamie! John! Are you in here?"

Only the quiet gloom of the house, a groan as the wind blew against the dilapidated structure. She edged along the wall, keeping the steps in sight. They seemed to lead out of the basement, then circle back and return...

"Michael?" Then, louder, "Michael!"

No answer. Not that she expected him to. And if he were here, then surely he must have heard her cries at this point and come seeking her out… would not bide his time, stalking her like prey, waiting to strike…

( _A hand grabbing her from the darkness as her back was turned – a shape looming out of the shadows of a basement – standing, watching as she stumbled to her feet, blood in her eyes, blood from her nose, blood in her mouth –)_

She blinked, sounds, feelings fading. There was something there... something the footsteps had led to, gleaming white under the faint moonlight.

Laurie moved towards the white thing, breath shivering.

It looked like two scraps of paper, propped up against the wall. Carefully she picked them up and brought them, fingers shaking, as close to the cracks of a window as she could.

She was holding two photos, both of them instantly recognizable. One was a black and white photo of a young boy, sitting on the front steps of a house and holding a baby in his arms. Its edges were brown and crumbling from age. The other was much newer, a color photo. Laurie could still remember the day it was taken. Because it was the photo of her, with Jamie and John near their house.

There was a rising panic in her mind. Why had he left these here? The photo his ( _their_ ) mother had given him and he had kept for so many years, and the one she had given him – why had he left these behind? Did he mean these as some kind of shrine? Some part of a plan only he understood?

Or was he relinquishing any emotional connection he retained to Laurie? To her children?

Hurriedly, she pushed the photos into a pocket. She couldn't think; the walls of the house were shrinking in on her, constricting her. Mind buzzing, she turned and fled back into the basement, taking the steps two at a time. One of them cracked, bending under her foot, and she let out a yelp that echoed horribly through the house before managing to catch the railing. Frantic now, she ran out into the yard, almost slipping on the leaves, before crashing out the gate.

_Breathe. Breathe._ This could mean anything –

But he was here. He was here, somewhere in the streets, in homes –

The faces of the journalists came back to her, the man with his face slashed beyond recognition, the woman with her head hanging at an unnatural angle... only now it was her neighbors, her coworkers… Rachel, the Carruthers, Deputy Hawkins… Jamie and John…

_Her_ fault. Because she had not kept him happy. Because he was coming after her, her children, and he would kill anyone in his way.

The pressure on her chest had reached its peak; she couldn't take in any breaths. She leaned against her car, though she had no memory of reaching it – her back was to the house but she was safe under the street lamps. She was trying to suck in air, but it was hard, so hard –

_...the only person Michael even listens to..._

She pressed fingers to her head, grabbing strands of hair until it hurt, blocking it out, all of it out.

She didn't know how long she remained bent over the hood of her car. What she did know was at some point hearing the silence of the deserted streets broken by faint, pattering footsteps.

She jerked her head up, automatically groping for – God, she didn't even have a _weapon_. But the figure running down the street was too small, too fast to be Michael –

In fact, was a very familiar figure...

Frowning, Laurie moved forward, steadying herself on her car. "Rachel?"

It was, indeed, Rachel Carruthers, panting, clutching her side as she came up to the car.

"Mrs. Lloyd –" She gulped in air. Under the orange glow of the street lamps, Laurie could see a sheen of sweat over Rachel's face. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Lloyd – Jamie, John, I can't – I think I lost them! I can't find them!"

The ground seemed to swoop out from under Laurie's feet; without thinking, she grabbed Rachel's shoulders and shook her.

"What?! What happened?!" she shouted. "How could you –" _How could you lose them, how could you not have your eyes on them at all times, on this night of all nights?_ she almost said, but then she saw Rachel's panicked expression, the guilt wracking her face, and stopped herself. "No – I mean – Rachel, what happened? Where did you last see them? _Rachel_!"

Rachel shook her head, still gasping for breath. "Down – down Southwood – we weren't that far from your place – I just turned around and Jamie had gone – and then John ran off with his friends – I've been searching them for – I don't know how long, but I can't – I can't –"

Laurie's mind was racing – Southwood was near here, she could make it in her car and search for them herself –

But she could not leave Rachel here, alone on the streets – she would have to get Rachel home safely first – and a tiny yet horrible part of her felt angry at the girl for taking up her time, time she needed to be out looking –

Rachel was still speaking, almost crying from fear. "And I know – I know about the curfew – but I heard – Mrs. Lloyd, I heard a woman say that – that it's _Michael Myers_ out here – and I couldn't leave them, but I couldn't _find_ them, so I thought – thought I might come here –"

And Laurie felt a surge of admiration that only made her guilt stronger – admiration that Rachel would brave coming to this house, the specter of Haddonfield, for her children.

"Is it true?" Rachel's eyes were large. "Is it – Michael Myers?"

Laurie could not say a word, could only steer Rachel towards her car. "Listen to me," she said urgently, opening the passenger door, "I'm going to get you back home. It's not safe for you out here. I'll drop you off, and I want you to walk straight up those steps – don't look behind you, don't look around you, don't go anywhere, just get into your house and lock all the doors and windows. You got that?"

Rachel nodded frantically, clicking her seatbelt in place as she settled into the chair. "What about you? What're you going to do?"

Laurie gripped the wheel. "I'm going to find my children."

* * *

"You sure you don't want me to stay with you?" asked Molly, her eyebrows all crinkled.

John shook his head. Charlie and Sarah had already gone home, but Molly had stuck around with John to try and find Rachel. But they had reached Molly's home without ever seeing Rachel. "It's okay. I know where she is." He smiled at her, feeling his cheeks go a little warm. "Thanks for sharing your candy."

She beamed. "You're welcome. Bye!" She started to go, then looked back. "Don't let the Boogeyman get you!"

John watched her blonde curls bobbing underneath her hood as she entered her home, then turned around. It _was_ getting pretty dark, he needed to head back. He knew the way back to Rachel, he just had to retrace his steps.

About half an hour later, he had to admit that retracing steps was harder than he had thought. All he needed to do was take a right, cross a street, then take a left. But the bad thing was that Rachel wasn't where he had left her.

"Rachel!" He looked around. Now that it was almost night, all the trick-or-treaters were going home. Only a few older kids were left, and even they were hurrying off with their friends and parents. He was the only one without a group.

"Jamie!"

Some teenagers gave him a funny look, then laughed and ran up to their house. John pushed his mask up to see better. He could still find his way back, if he remembered his landmarks. He was always better at that than Jamie, could find his way back home no matter where he was.

So he trotted up the sidewalk. It was getting colder, and his costume wasn't all that thick, and his bag of candy was heavy, but he kept going. See, there was that big tree on the corner, he would have to turn there. He only hoped Jamie was okay... but she always stuck closer to Rachel than he did. She was probably home right now, eating her candy without him.

He took the turn right at the big tree, trying to do like Mom said and stay under the lights. And now there was the house that never cut its lawn, he would to pass that. He knew where he was; all he had to do was keep going up this block, then turn right at the house with a big fountain in its yard, and he'd soon be at his house. He hoped Mom wasn't home yet. She always got very angry when they came home late.

He wondered if it had to do with his uncle.

_Don't let the Boogeyman get you!_

_Stay inside on Halloween, or Michael Myers will slash you to bits!_

_Your uncle is Michael Myers! He killed_ _his sister and now he's gonna come after you!_

John clutched his candy bag harder. Because he knew that last one was true.

He knew because he had heard his mother call his uncle "Michael".

He knew because, once, when his mother wasn't looking, he had crept up on his uncle and looked at his hospital bracelet. His uncle had definitely noticed – he had even looked down at him and given him that funny head tilt that reminded John of Rachel's dog – but he hadn't said or done anything while John had poked at his wrist and read that his name was "Myers, M."

And he knew because once he had gone exploring his mother's bookshelf, and he had found one of her books, and in the middle of the big, long chapters with lots of tiny words and no pictures, he had found a section full of photos, and one of them had said it was "Michael Myers" in the caption and it had been a picture of his uncle.

And it had said he had killed people. The book had photos of some of them, and little captions with their names. John could even remember seeing his uncle killing people when they had visited him in the hospital and some people had broken in. But Mom had told him and Jamie it was all right, they were bad people and they would have hurt them.

If Uncle only killed bad people, was it okay then? He'd always thought killing anybody was wrong, but he didn't really care if they were people who would have hurt him and Jamie and Mom. But everyone else had said that his uncle had killed other people, and nobody had said _those_ people were bad, which meant it _wasn't_ okay... right? But at the same time, John couldn't really believe it. In all the time he knew his uncle, he had never tried to hurt them. He didn't really move much at all, to be honest; he was just quiet, and still, and always watching Mom. And sometimes them. And not in a scary or strange way, just... his uncle's way.

He knew Jamie didn't believe any of what the kids said at all, and he didn't know what his mom thought at all. The whole thing left him confused and headache-y.

John took one last turn and hurried the last twenty feet or so to his house. But when he ran up the steps, he saw all the lights were out and the door was locked.

"Mom!" He knocked loudly, feeling funny – he had never knocked on his own door. "Rachel?" He knocked again. But there was no answer.

Now what should he do? Were Mom and Jamie upstairs? He could knock louder. But what if they weren't home? Should he sit on the front porch and wait? He dropped his candy bag near the door and poked his head around the corners, but there were no lights there in any of the side windows either. Maybe if he went around to the back –

"Hey, kid!"

John started. A police car had driven up, pulling next to the sidewalk. A young-looking policeman stopped and stepped out.

"This your home, kid?" the policeman asked. When John nodded, the policeman asked, "What's your name?"

"John. John Lloyd."

The policeman waved him over. "You're Laurie Lloyd's son, aren't you? She's not home?" John shook his head. The policeman frowned at him. "You out on your own?"

"No," said John nervously. "I was with – with Jamie, and Rachel – our babysitter – because Mom wasn't home yet, but I got lost…"

The policeman gave a brief nod. "Well, at least you found your way home. Your mom's probably out there searching for you, but we've got men patrolling, we'll bring her back."

He came around and opened up the passenger door of his car. "Come sit in here then. Deputy Hawkins has got us watching your house." As John sat down, the policeman went back to the driver's side, reached through his open window and grabbed the radio. "You can wait here until we find her. We'll keep you safe." He gave a reassuring smile as he clicked on the radio.

"Hawkins, you copy? This is Officer Francis. I've got one of the Lloyd kids, the boy. Over."

In the corner of his eye, John thought he saw movement from across the street. He stared, squinting into the blackness behind the officer.

The radio crackled. "This is Hawkins, I copy. We picked up the girl, on our way to you." A pause. "Might've seen something when we got her, not too sure. Over."

The girl? Was that Jamie? Did they find Jamie? A little trickle of relief flowed through him.

Then he blinked – he was sure he had seen something move again.

"Copy that, will keep an eye out –"

John gasped.

A shape had emerged, just within sight in the shadows of the trees across from them.

"You see anything suspicious, don't hesi-"

John pointed out the window. "Behind you!"

The officer turned – and the shape moved.

It came at the policeman fast, faster than John had ever seen something move. The policeman raised his gun, shouting something.

The shape slammed into him, shoving him into the car so hard John felt it shudder. The policeman yelled, clawing at the figure – but hands wrapped themselves around the man's uniform –

_Thump!_ The officer was hauled back then slammed again into the car door, his head smacking against the top of the frame and sending his body spasming.

John screamed.

A flash of light across the policeman's neck. A choked off sound – and John saw the officer's body seize up and then fall backward, through the open window – his head lolling over for John to see the massive gash on his throat –

The man gurgled as something dark and thick spilled across his neck, down over his chin – pulsing with his strangled breaths – running into the man's eyes, his hair –

Then the shape, the monster, bent, looking through the window, past the body, and straight at John – so that John could see that the man was wearing a cracked and horrible-looking mask and feel his eyes burning into him –

And John recognized that stare.

He screamed again. Then again. He wasn't aware of anything except that he had to run, he had to _go_ – he grabbed for the door –

It flew open and he fell out, crashing his knees against the concrete. Still screaming, he ran down the street, looking back once.

The shape was following him.

_Your uncle is Michael Myers! He's going to come after you!_

John ran.

He ducked around a corner and ran some more. The cold air seared his throat when he gasped, but still he ran – ran from the shape – ran from the policeman with his throat open, bleeding and eyes wide –

John never knew how far he ran, or where – all he could remember was looking back again and that man ( _Uncle_ ), that shape ( _Boogeyman_ ), still pursuing him –

_Your uncle's the Devil!_

And then he heard a screech. Lights blinded him, and he threw up his arms, stopping in his tracks and falling over backwards. He heard a door open and slam – footsteps – and then arms grabbing him.

"John! John!"

He gasped, opening his eyes. "Mom!" And threw his arms around him, wanting her to hold him tight as possible, to take away the policeman, bleeding, bleeding so much –

Instead his mother pushed him back, then grabbed his shoulders. "Where's your sister, John? Where's Jamie?!" In the lights she looked wild, scarier than he'd ever seen her.

"I don't know, I don't –" His heart was thumping frantically. "I haven't seen her –" He stared all around him, all over the empty streets. "Mom, he _killed_ – _he killed someone_ –"

"What?!"

He tugged on her hand, pointing into the darkness – _needing_ her to understand –

"He's coming –!"

She looked. The shape was there, just outside the beam of a lamp, a dark figure, only his face an ugly cracked gray color. John saw his mom go horribly tense, felt her hands on his arms tighten painfully. She pushed him back, back towards the car. In the faint light, his mother looked very, very pale – yet there was a look on her face, scared and – something else –

Shielding John with one hand, Laurie held up the other.

"Michael!"


	6. Patient

"Get back!" Laurie pushed her son further behind her. "Get back, John!"

And oh God there he was and it was like something out her nightmares – a dark shape, blood staining his clothing, his hands, his knife, and that mask, cracked and monstrous –

The blood was pounding in her ears, the whine of her memories at fever pitch; he was approaching her and her son with every step and Laurie had no idea, no idea what he wanted this time.

"Michael!" she screamed, not sure any longer if she was trying to stop him or plead with him.

He halted.

John was breathing hard behind her. She pressed a hand to his shoulder, trying to give him a reassurance she did not feel, then took a hesitant step forward.

_Mom, he killed someone..._

Who had he killed?

What did he want?

"Michael..."

Oh God, what could she say? Once she had been terrified to just visit him, but now she knew that had been nothing – under the eyes of cameras, of guards, under restraints, she had been so unaware of how safe she actually was. This was horribly, terrifyingly different from her visits; this Michael, whose face she could not see, who was just standing there with no hint of his intentions – this Michael, she had no idea how he would react.

She moistened her suddenly dry mouth. "Please, Michael –"

He stepped forward, and the light gleamed off his knife, and she gasped, backing up several steps in response. He stopped, head tilting slightly. Was he responding to her? Or was he simply waiting, amping up the tension until he was ready to strike?

Laurie took another swallow of air, one shaky step towards him. If she could just pretend that she was back at Smith's Grove… that this was just another regular visit… that nothing had changed... she might get through this. "It's okay..." Keep her voice calm, low. "Michael, it's okay." His head tilted back. "It's okay. Just... just…"

_...the only person Michael even listens to..._

"Please..." She stepped forward again, heard John whimper but ignored him. She kept her eyes solely on her brother, trying to peer through the dark into his eyes. "It's me…"

Did a hint of recognition appear? She could not be sure.

"Can you…" The knife shone once more, held so that its blade pointed at her, making Laurie's gaze flick down to it. "Michael… can you drop the knife? Just… drop it? Please..."

He cocked his head to one side again, then looked down at the knife. Back up to her. Laurie held her breath. Slowly, he lowered the blade, his grip loosening just a fraction.

A screech of brakes. Michael's head jerked up, and Laurie whirled around. Sirens approaching fast, the sound of tires squealing on pavement – and a police cruiser turned around a corner and came to a sudden halt just a few feet behind Laurie's car. She threw up a hand against the flashing lights, the wind whipping her hair in her face. Blinking back the stinging in her eyes at the sudden brightness, she heard a voice, amplified many times over:

"Drop your weapon and get down on the ground!"

Instinctively she crouched, groping for John and tugging him close to her own body. "Wait!" She could not even hear herself over the voice, the sirens. "Stop! Don't –"

A gunshot. Laurie cried out, throwing herself and John to the ground. Somewhere in her peripheral vision she saw Michael's body jerk from the impact. Fumbling frantically, she ran along the length of her car, dragging her son with her, keeping him tight and low to the pavement. Another gunshot, and another, and she clapped her hands over John's ears as hers rang from the echo. She thought she heard someone yell, "No!"

The gunshots ended, the sirens went silent, though their lights still flashed, sending red and blue shadows flickering against Laurie's closed eyelids.

"Stay in the car!"

"You've killed him."

"I said, stay in the car! Keep back!"

She recognized the voice – Deputy Hawkins. Laurie peeked up. Hawkins had exited the police car, which was still running. His gun was raised as he approached her.

He came up next to her. "You okay?" he asked her, though he kept his eyes focused on something behind her. Laurie nodded, pushing herself into a sitting position. The deputy let go of the gun with one hand, pressing Laurie's shoulder. "Good. Everything's going to be all right now, you hear?" For just a second he broke his unwavering stare to look at her. "Get to my car with your son. Let me handle this."

Laurie gave no response; she doubted Hawkins expected any. John was still tucked in her arms, and she stroked his hair just to give her hands something to do.

Hawkins walked past her, gun still raised, but she did not turn around. Not yet, though she knew Michael was there. His presence ( _Dead? Unconscious?_ ) felt almost physical, a pressure against her back. Still brushing John's hair, she looked around at the houses, expecting to see their owners peeking through curtains, drifting out of doors to see the commotion. All was silent – but it was the tense, _loud_ silence that always followed chaos.

Laurie sucked in a breath, heartbeat still pounding in her ears. Steeling herself, she turned.

Her brother was lying on the ground several feet in front of her car. His knife had dropped near his hand. Hawkins stood some distance away, peering cautiously at the prone body, still keeping his weapon trained on him. Was Michael breathing? Was he dead?

And what did that mean for her? She tried to focus on something, some thought, some feeling, but her mind was fractured, emotions scattered.

"Is he…" _Dead? Alive?_

And which did she want?

"Not sure," Hawkins said, still moving cautiously. "But stay back. Don't come any nearer."

She had no intention of doing so. John was looking up from her arms now, wiping his face. Laurie stood shakily, hoping her legs wouldn't buckle beneath her. Her entire body had a deadened, numb quality to it, and there was a faint buzzing in her ears.

A car door opened, then closed. She felt a presence brush near her, then tap her arm. Laurie blinked in confusion. It was Michael's doctor, Dr. Sartain.

"Laurie Strode. Thank God you are unharmed," said the doctor, beckoning her over. He looked rather the worse for wear – his usual impeccably parted hair was ruffled, there was a livid bruise over one eye, and his left arm was in a cast and sling.

"What –" Laurie stuttered. She shook her head; seeing him in the threatening streets of Haddonfield instead of the calmness of Smith's Grove was too much, too disorienting. "Why – why are you here?"

"Michael Myers is my patient and of all the people here, I know him best. As soon I regained consciousness, the sheriff asked me to come with Deputy Hawkins here to help track him down." He waved her over more commandingly. "Come here now, come. Your daughter's in the back seat."

"Jamie?" John echoed her word as Laurie dashed forward, pulling him along. Now that they were closer, Laurie could see the car was no ordinary police vehicle, but a kind of cruiser, larger and higher than others. And sure enough, there was her daughter sitting in the back, face shiny with sweat and her dress muddy and torn, but alive. Jamie cried out as she saw her mother, clambering towards the grille separating the back and front seats. "Thank God," Laurie breathed. The passenger window was down, and she leaned in through it to speak to her daughter. "Jamie, are you okay? Are you hurt? Did he–?"

"I got lost," Jamie sniffled. "But then – Uncle found me –"

Laurie gripped the window. "Did he _do_ anything?"

"No, he –"

"Deputy Hawkins!" Dr. Sartain shouted. "You have done enough to my patient. Step back."

"As far as I'm concerned, Dr. Sartain, this man is an escaped criminal who has brought death to our town, _and_ wants to kill the woman and children behind me!" Laurie flinched. _Death_ … the only question was how many… "Now get Mrs. Lloyd and her son into the car!"

Some emotion Laurie could not grasp flashed across the doctor's face. "Perhaps you have the keys?" he asked the deputy calmly.

Hawkins unhooked them from his belt and tossed them over his shoulder. He still had not taken his eyes off Michael. Laurie watched uncomprehendingly as Dr. Sartain unlocked the back door and pushed her son into the seat with Jamie, still feeling numb, still feeling that she was a mere inhabitant in her body, viewing everything from a distance.

What had Michael wanted?

What would he have done if Hawkins had not interrupted – saved them?

"Mrs. Lloyd?"

Without realizing it, she was approaching her brother's body, where Hawkins was standing guard a safe distance away. He stared at her as she drew near.

"Keep back, Mrs. Lloyd," he said firmly. "If he's not dead, there's no telling what he might do."

But what had he wanted to do?

"He's dead, Deputy," Dr. Sartain called from behind them. "Now let me deal with my patient myself."

"This man has killed at least half a dozen people in the last few hours alone!" shouted Hawkins.

_Half a dozen? Who?_ The words impacted on her brain, then dissipated. And Laurie just kept staring at Michael, taking long breaths.

What did he want?

"He is property of the state, he cannot be harmed," Dr. Sartain was saying.

"Then the state can sue me, right after they fire me. Far as I'm concerned, he should have his brains blown out!" Hawkins retorted right back.

"Laurie!" Dr. Sartain said. "Ms. Strode, please, help him to see reason."

"There is no reason for Mrs. Lloyd to want this man alive!" said Hawkins loudly. He looked back at her, just for a second. "What possible reason can there be," he murmured. It more a statement than a question… as if he could not fathom why Laurie would question his decision.

And why should she? Laurie stared at him, her mind in turmoil. She could see an end to her fear, to her burdens, if Hawkins killed Michael right there. No more looking over her shoulder, no more having to face her brother's impenetrable stare, week after week, month after month, hoping and praying she would say the right words, do the right things, to keep him pliant; no more holding up that weight of guilt, for her parents, for Lynda and Annie, for all the others he had killed, to get to her, _for_ her –

And yet – how could she let him be killed? This last member of her biological family, the only connection she had to the mother and sister she had never known – the last link she had, in a sick, twisted way, to her dead adoptive parents, her dead friend. Something deep in her body rejoiced in his imminent death – and, at the same time, recoiled at the thought of letting Hawkins shoot him, because…

Because this _was_ her only family left. Because at one point he had found her and her children and taken them away from people who would have hurt the. Because he was vulnerable right in this moment. And because she could still remember a photo being held out to her, a man taking off his mask and bowing his head and simply waiting, waiting for her words like there was nothing else in the world that mattered to him, and a hand left open for hers –

She said, "Wait –"

Michael sat up, and lunged at Hawkins.

Hawkins brought the gun up, but too late. Before Laurie's terrified eyes, Michael had one hand wrapped around Hawkins's neck while the other found the knife.

Light refracted off the blade – and then it was jutting out of Hawkins's belly, dark blood leaking around the handle. She thought she might have cried out; she knew she had fallen back, slamming into the pavement.

Michael pulled – a horrible squelch that brought bile rising to Laurie's throat – and the flow of blood quickened, spreading its dark stain over Hawkins's uniform. The gun dropped as he tried to press at his wound, only for Michael to squeeze his hand tighter around Hawkins's neck, and lift –

Laurie screamed. "No!"

She ran forward, not thinking about anything except that she had to stop this – _so stupid, so stupid of her to hesitate, why hadn't she let him_ – and grabbed hold of Michael's arm –

Only for Michael to throw Hawkins's struggling body, with Laurie hanging onto him, flinging both of them from him.

Hawkins's body and Laurie slammed into the side of her car together. All the air was knocked from her body. Her head was ringing, there was a heavy weight suffocating her still further and she couldn't see, all was white and flashing – except for a blurry shape moving faster than she had ever expected, next to her, past her –

A crash.

Shattering.

Shrieking.

" _Mommy!_ "

Laurie shook the white spots from her vision, panting as she tried to stand. Hawkins's body was half on her, she could see him still struggling to move, a dark stain on his stomach, but she had no time for him now – the screams of her children were all that mattered –

" _Mom! MOM!_ "

She staggered to her feet, clinging desperately to her car and pulling herself along its edge – the flashing lights were sending spikes of pain through her eyes but she shook it off –

And saw Michael, at the window of the police car. He had plunged his hands through the glass and was reaching inside – for a screaming, struggling Jamie –

"NO!"

Laurie stumbled over Hawkins's leg, falling – panicked, she saw Michael grab hold of Jamie's sleeve and heard cloth rip and Jamie's accompanying cry as he dragged her towards the broken window – towards himself –

"Get away from her!" Laurie shouted. " _Get away_ –"

Something gleamed at the corner of her vision – and without thinking, as if her body knew what it was before her mind did, she grabbed it.

"MICHAEL, STOP!" She aimed the gun, finger on the trigger –

Without warning, the police car shot revved up and shot towards her. Laurie saw John being flung at the grille from the sudden momentum, Jamie thrown forward too, saw pink cloth tear and Michael lose his grip on her as the car roared past him, and she threw up her hands to shield herself knowing that she would not survive a hit – that the last thing she would hear would be her children's screams –

And instead, felt air rush past her face as the car pulled up next to her. The passenger door swung open – Dr. Sartain was in the driver's seat, turning the wheel as best as he could with one arm in a sling.

"Get in!" he yelled.

Laurie needed no further prompting. She threw herself into the car, slamming the passenger door. In the rear view mirror, she could see Michael advancing on them.

"GO!" she exclaimed.

Dr. Sartain slammed the accelerator, and they sped down the street – away from Hawkins's body, away from the houses, away from Michael.

"Where should we go?" demanded Dr. Sartain, executing a wild turn around the corner.

Laurie was still shaking, breaths coming in small pants. "Away," she gasped. "Get as far away from Haddonfield as possible."

"You can't outrun him," said Dr. Sartain, turning onto a larger road.

Laurie sucked in a deeper breath. Her body was quivering, adrenaline still racing through her system.

"I'm not trying to outrun him," she said at last. "He's going to come for me. I just – I just need to make sure I'm as far from everyone else as I can… when he does."

In the back, she could hear her children sobbing, but she could not think of them right now. She could no longer see Michael in the mirror, but she knew he was there. He would always be there, at her footsteps. He would follow her until one of them was dead.

* * *

Ranbir Sartain could still remember the day he heard the name _Michael Myers_.

In some ways, Michael Myers had been with Sartain for his entire professional career. He still recalled reading of the crime during his graduate studies. The brutality of the killings, the youthfulness of the killer, the closeness of the victims to him – nothing like it had ever been seen before. The papers were lurid with details, but what Sartain remembered, even during those feverish days of trying to finish his thesis while simultaneously following the news circus, was a photo. It was a photo of the boy as he was taken away in the back of a police car, snapped surreptitiously by a particularly careful reporter.

He remembered the eyes of that young boy.

Those eyes had haunted him, driven him, as he acquired his degree, obtained his license, climbed the professional ladder in hospitals, in private care, in institutions. At first he had tried to put it aside. To care for his many supposedly incurable cases, the many patients he received whose relatives insisted were a drain on them, were incapable of living normally, who had to be locked up. Such helplessness. All those patients had been little more than a distraction; their symptoms, their causes, so banal, so easy to cure. A little medication, a touch of therapy, and they were gone, to live out their dreary, normal lives or fall through the cracks of society, whichever one. It was a rotating door of patients, in and out with their worries and anxieties and paranoias.

But oh, the truly criminally insane? Now there was the incurable. The unfathomable.

Deep he had dived into those cases, even with the little spare time he had. He wanted to penetrate those minds, to understand the face of evil: how they thought, what they understood. What _motivated_ them.

And yet – the more he studied, the more dissatisfied he felt, the further he drifted from true comprehension. Like his other patients, even these cases, the ones the public labeled with such words as "depraved" and "deranged", became... boring. Dissembling these "serial killers" was all too simple: to place labels upon each symptom, to ruminate over every little spat they witnessed between their parents, every sexual perversion they possessed. Too easy to harp on the uselessness of the education system or the prison system or the government system, on their many woes that had, inevitably, led to their crimes.

Was this truly the nature of evil? Some random mix of internal and external forces dolloped onto a human being?

There had been nothing approaching the purity of that little boy with the impenetrable eyes, whose case Sartain had found himself following once more – newspaper snippets stuffed in a drawer, case studies perused furtively in his spare time.

So when he had heard that Michael's doctor was leaving, he had petitioned for the job. It was helpful, by then, that he had had so many successful cases. Smith's Grove had snatched him up eagerly, given him access to all of his predecessors' notes, and let him have free reign over Michael. He doubted any of them had expected him to have any success, probably felt he was wasting his talents on a hopeless case.

He still remembered meeting Michael.

Sartain had been led into a room to await his new patient's arrival. He remembered projecting an outward calm to hide his shivers of anticipation. At last, he had thought, he could stand in the presence of the man himself, feel his awareness, his intelligence, the processes that only Michael himself could fathom. He could recall savoring those last few seconds before Michael entered... the last time he would be truly _innocent_ of pure malevolence.

And oh, it had been everything he had thought it would be. For all his silence, his lack of expression, the lack of any movement save breathing, nothing could hide how Michael had filled and dominated that room. Sartain was nothing more than a tiny insect standing before a god; that was how important he was in Michael's comprehension, in an awareness so vast that it entirely erased all individuality. He had looked into those black eyes behind the hand-made mask and seen absolutely nothing he could call human.

For five days, he had devoted himself to the case. To Michael's voluminous case file, the many studies written on him. To speaking to Michael. To attempting to dissect the layers of his mind, joyfully aware that he could spend a lifetime and not begin to penetrate beyond the uppermost regions of his patient's thoughts. The sheer purity of evil that Michael represented, devoid of morals or values or conscience, the complete lack of anything like compassion or remorse or empathy – the complete lack of anything _human_ – promised years and years of study.

Those five days had been just a blissful journey into his patient's cognizance. The only mar, the tiniest regret, was his envy of Dr. Loomis, for only Loomis had seen such purity in the wild, while Sartain had to be content with the limitations of the lab.

And then, on the sixth day, he had met _her_.

Angel Myers.

Sartain was, naturally, aware of the woman. He had studied Michael's entire family, was well aware of the father who had died, the older sister he had murdered, the mother who had killed herself. The younger sister, he knew, had met the brother on his one escape, had survived and married and produced offspring and was currently living with her own small family in Michael's hometown, making periodic visits to her infamous relative. He had not thought of her beyond that; he had supposed that she had come out of duty, some family obligation mixed with, perhaps, morbid curiosity.

He had been very wrong.

She had been petite, he remembered, with none of her brother's height. Young; she was a decade younger than Michael. He had noted a passing resemblance to Michael's mother and Michael himself as a child. Otherwise, he had never seen a more normal woman, maybe with more dark circles under her eyes than should be usual, a touch more trauma. Michael's doing, obviously. Had she been a patient of his, he would have diagnosed her, cured her, and sent her on her way with no more than a passing thought.

He had led her to the room, making just enough small talk to note just how ordinary, how _average_ , she was – such a contrast to her brother, he had thought idly, with her mundane worries about her job and her children. He had opened the door to the visitor's center and moved to an observational room, thinking he would witness a half hour of boredom. He _had_ been slightly puzzled when the guards insisted on freeing Michael from his restraints during the visit – "previous doc's orders, sir" – given that his own sessions with Michael always had the man shackled to his chair. Perhaps, he had mused, she might liven up the situation by doing something stupid like accusing Michael or trying to shoot him. He had wondered, with some anticipation, if he might witness a retaliatory attack of some kind – it would be the closest he would ever come to seeing Michael's true form, after all...

But then she had stepped into that room with her brother, and everything had changed.

Sartain had witnessed the whole thing from a one-way viewing window. Angel Myers had gone into the room, and Michael had simply transformed.

It was like the man had come alive, as if all Sartain had been seeing in their sessions was a shell masking his true self. From an unassuming young woman, Angel Myers had become the center of attention – not because of anything she did (he remembered all she had done was lay her purse on the table and sit down), but because of Michael. That perfect blank awareness, that unfathomable incomprehension, had focused like a laser point to hone in on _her_.

And she, the ignorant child, had not understood a bit of it.

She had not even noticed.

But Sartain had seen the way Michael's eyes followed her, and only her – as if _she_ formed the center of his world. Nurses would enter, or guards, or Sartain himself, but none of them entered Michael's consciousness, all were excluded – save for _her_. He had seen the way Michael had mirrored her smallest movements – a wisp of hair coming loose, a tiny gesture of her arm. And at first he had tried to justify that concentration – that Michael was lying in wait, that he was observing her weaknesses, poised for attack. But no: he had witnessed this girl with her tired eyes and trembling body lay hands on Michael's body, on his masks, on his face, without any repercussions. He had seen her speak to him, and had seen Michael respond – not with speech, but with just the tiniest movement of his body: a breath, a tilt of the head, an open hand. He had seen her bring her children with him, and watched as Michael had done nothing. _She_ had infiltrated Michael, down to his core. Sartain could see it, in the relaxed set of his shoulders, the long breath when she had left, the distance of his gaze for hours after each of her visits.

That inexhaustible, incomprehensible evil that he had thought was the very essence of Michael Myers had, instead, given way to _that_.

This girl, this ordinary, normal sister of his… this Angel Myers… knew every secret of Michael's.

And she could not have cared less about it.

* * *

Now he turned onto the street Angel Myers had indicated. There was a pain in his left arm, broken when he had crashed against the bus as it fell over the embankment, but it was easy to ignore. He had known that he would have to sustain some injury in his efforts to allow Michael into the wild. It was a small price to pay for this opportunity.

The girl, Angel Myers, appeared to be hyperventilating. He could see her clutching a gun in her right hand. Good. She would need that soon.

Her twins were still whimpering behind him, and he asked her to take care of them, more to keep them quiet than for any other reason. She turned around, and he had to strain to hear her over the wind gusting through the broken window.

"Jamie, John – did he hurt you? Are you okay?"

He could not hear the girl's answer, but he thought he heard the boy – thought he heard him say something about seeing a man killed.

"Oh God." Angel Myers had turned away, was leaning her head against her free hand. In the back, Jamie was talking frantically to her brother, but Sartain could not make out their conversation. "Oh my God..." she said again. He knew what she was feeling, knew from his long experience how the cracks of her trauma were re-opening, fracturing her carefully patched mind.

She peered up at Sartain, blonde hair falling in her face. "Do you know, Dr. Sartain? Do you know how many he's... killed?"

"I saw him slaughter both of the guards on our bus."

Hhe remembered that moment, the one he had been working towards for months. It had easy, blindingly easy, to switch out the drug they would use to keep Michael calm for a simple salt solution; to check that his restraints were just the tiniest bit loose; to give the bus driver something that would make just a little less alert.

Then his only duty was to sit and wait. And when he had seen Michael stand from the wreckage of the crash and step over the patients, majestic even in his ragged robe and wearing the remnants of his shackles… Sartain had known he would never forget that sight.

He brought himself back to the present, to Angel Myers's stricken face. Allowing his voice a tinge of remorse, he continued, "Deputy Hawkins informed me that he killed four others at a nearby gas station. On our way here, we also heard a report that a woman was found dead, her knife missing."

"Oh God-"

"And with the man your son has reported and our good deputy, I would guess he's murdered at least eight people since his escape."

Angel Myers – Laurie Strode – was leaning against the dashboard now. Sartain watched her dispassionately.

"None of this is your fault, Ms. Strode," he said soothingly. Which, of course, only made her go paler. "You cannot hold yourself responsible for your brother's actions."

"Of course it is," she said, in a deadened voice. "He's after me."

He nodded to himself. Guilt. "You are certain of this."

She raised her head. "That's what he did the – the first time." A long breath. _The first time._ Sartain had done his research, even more so once he knew of what precisely Angel Myers meant to Michael. Had learned that this first escape had done as much to define Angel Myers – Laurie Strode – as it had Michael.

"Keep driving," she ordered. "Take a left until you get to Cherrywood."

Sartain did as she said. "Where do you intend to go?"

Her eyes were large, haunted. "After my parents... died... I stayed with one of my friends and her father. They had a house, all the way at the edge of town, at the end of the road... I don't think anyone ever bought it... so there's nobody there. I have to get him away from the town..."

"And what will you do if he comes for you?" he asked.

She looked even more terrified. "I have to – I have to –" She sucked in air. " _I don't know_..." Dr. Sartain let her stew in silence, saw her twisting her fingers along the barrel of the gun. After a moment, she said, "I don't know what he _wants_."

"Do you believe he would hurt you?" he asked. "Hurt your children?" He glanced back at her twins – the boy, still tense with remembered horror, eyes staring, unseeing, out the window; the girl, her dress dirt-stained and her sleeve ripped, curled up into herself.

"I don't – he's never hurt them – or me..." But she sounded uncertain, and Sartain pressed on that.

"Never? Not in all the time you've known him?"

She stared at him, swallowed. "There was... one time. When he first escaped. He – he chased me into his house and – pushed me over – over the –"

Sartain knew of the incident, confused as it had been. From the accounts he had read, Michael had attempted to kill his younger sister only once, the confrontation ending when she had grazed him in the head with a gunshot and he was arrested once again. The incident puzzled him, for in all the times Laurie Strode had visited her brother, he had never shown any such inclination again. Which meant that either Michael had simply forgotten himself when he escaped... or there was some other inciting incident.

Laurie Strode had stopped speaking, but Sartain needed to know what this incident had been. So he asked her, "Do you fear that he will repeat this incident?"

A stare, and he saw confusion. "He won't..." She seemed to think about it. "I don't think – what he did, I think that was because I stab–"

She stopped, brow furrowing, but it was all Sartain needed. Confirmation of what he had guessed. So it was indeed Laurie Strode's actions that had caused the incident. He clenched the wheel. To have seen Michael in that state… completely unrestrained… he could only imagine it.

"If he has tried to attack you before," he said, drawing out each word slowly, "he may do so again. Now that he's free of the confines of the institution – in the wild, as it were – he may well give into his more... predatory instincts."

"He wouldn't," she said, but he could see the beginnings of fear. She shook her head. "Why – why are you saying all this? A few minutes ago, you were asking me to stop him from being killed."

"That was before I saw what he was capable of," said Sartain. "He has murdered a man in front of your son and tried to kidnap your daughter. He attacked Deputy Hawkins and hurt you in the process. Can you say with full certainty that he will not harm you?"

She did not respond, just stared out the window. Her hand was groping in a pocket, though her glassy eyes suggested that she was barely aware of what she was doing. Dr. Sartain let her, making the indicated turn. They were now traveling a smaller road, one that evidently saw less maintenance. The street lights were spaced out at longer intervals, the houses giving way to larger and larger yards. He thought they might soon reach the isolated farmlands that surrounded Haddonfield.

"That was what the visits were for," Laurie Strode said suddenly. She was not looking at Sartain now; she had pulled something out of her coat, was staring at them. "To keep him... quiet. Keep this from... happening." Sartain chanced a look over. It looked like she was holding two slips of paper – no, he saw as they drove under a light. Two photographs. He wondered what they showed, what significance they held for her. "That's what they kept telling me." Whether she even saw the photos was questionable; the numbed look in her eyes was only growing. "His old doctor. Those journalists. They keep saying I'm..."

"Special," he finished. Yes, it was rather remarkable that this unassuming slip of a girl had undergone such a change in her status. Dr. Loomis had been quite dismissive of her, even in his second book. Crime journalists had only focused on her improbable survival. Only Michael's previous doctor had examined her role, her relationship, more closely... but then only as a means to _cure_ Michael. To keep him _quiet_.

None of them, not even the girl herself, had realized just how significant Angel Myers – Laurie Strode – was.

The girl in question had pushed her forehead against the palms of her hands once more. Bitterness filled her voice. "That's what all of you have said. But I – I didn't want this. I don't want to be the only one… the only thing…"

A pause, the span of a heartbeat.

"What does that make me?" she murmured. "What does that make _them_?"

He knew she was speaking of her children. He kept driving, waiting.

It was another moment before she raised her face. "Do you know," she said, in a flat little voice, "I can barely remember what my life was like before him? I never – I never thought about anything like this, I just wanted to – to graduate and go to college and get married, until this – until him-"

Angel Myers. The only person who had the privilege of knowing Michael's mind, his motives – and she was too stupid and ungrateful to care.

And now he swept in on this girl who had so little idea of the honor she had been granted. "It is a great burden, Ms. Strode." He made his voice soft, comforting, the way he always sounded with his patients. "Nor is it something anyone should have to take on." He watched the road for a moment. The houses were becoming ever rarer, with a whole minute going by sometimes of only grassland and fields. "It is not your job to save him. Particularly if it puts others at risk."

She turned to face him. "What?"

"All the people he has killed. The people he might come after. Your children. You." He focused on the road, sharply aware that she was staring at him. "I'm sure you recall his earliest murders. His sister. Her boyfriend. His mother's boyfriend. Only you survived. Because you were _special_? Or merely because of luck?"

She was silent.

"And when he escaped – the people he killed. Your friends. Your family. You survived, once again… but was this due to his actions, or yours?

She continued to stare into the night.

"And now that he is free… you have already seen that he will stop at nothing to come after you or your children. Do you truly believe he will restrain himself from his deepest instincts, for you?"

She did not answer.

"Even Dr. Loomis did not hesitate to fire upon his own patient to protect others. To protect _you_ , as I recall. After what I have seen today, I can say the same." He indicated his broken arm ruefully. "I would not blame others for doing what is necessary."

He let that hang, driving on in silence.

Streetlamps flashed by at long intervals, their brightness dim in the inky blackness of fields and pastures and forests. The only other light came from the car, cutting through the darkness as they drove on. Inside was quiet, broken only by an in-drawn breath from Laurie Strode, a small whimper from the children.

The true significance of Angel Myers was known only to him and, for a brief moment, the journalists who had come on their ill-fated attempt to interview Michael. She, and by extension her children, were the one tiny link to what little humanity remained in Michael Myers.

And the nature of evil – clean, uncorrupted evil – allowed for no humanity. He would not allow Michael to continue to be sullied by this connection. There could be nothing to mar the perfect purity of Michael's purpose.

They had reached the end of the road. On their right Sartain could see an old-fashioned, two-story house, built in a farmhouse style. Its doors and windows were boarded up, a broken "For Sale" sign swinging in the wind. He would have stopped there, but Laurie Strode indicated for him to drive further, off the road and into the grass surrounding the house. He could see a small shed in the distance, a row of trees lining the street, but otherwise it was just the house and its land, atop a small embankment that sloped down into the surrounding forest.

As soon as he put the car in park, Laurie Strode unbuckled her seat belt. He saw with satisfaction that she was gripping the gun.

"I want you to get Jamie and John to the police," she said, voice tight. "I have to – I have to –" For a moment he thought she might choke on her own fear. "When he comes, I have to do this myself."

Her children, who had been so quiet all this time, let out a cry. "No!"

"Mommy, don't leave, don't leave us –"

"Mom, you can't!"

"Shhh," she said distractedly, opening the passenger door. Halfway out, she turned to face them, pressing her hand to the grille. "It's going to be all right. If you stay, you're going to be hurt, okay? Dr. Sartain will get you to the police; they'll protect you."

"Mommy," said Jamie in a tiny voice, "you're going to see Uncle, aren't you?"

She hesitated. "Yes. I'm going to – to talk to him."

In the mirror, Sartain saw Jamie glance at her brother. He looked at their mother.

"Our uncle is Michael Myers, isn't he?" He paused. "The Boogeyman."

Silence. There was something dark and resigned in their mother's eyes. "Yes."

She jumped out of the car and closed the door. Sartain could see her fingers running along the gun, twitching with nervousness. They waited, the twins making no noise except for the rare little whimper, Laurie Strode standing by the car, staring back at the road.

Then John gasped. "There."

The shape of a human figure had emerged from the trees.


	7. Family

Laurie had thought she would be afraid. The entire car ride, she was preparing herself for this moment, to see him head on without any protection… simultaneously trying to relive, and then to forget, each memory of that night over ten years ago – Lynda lying naked in front of a tombstone, Annie, brutalized on the carpet while her boyfriend's body hung over her, Dr. Loomis as his head was crushed – her parents dead, her life shattered, her identity gone –

She had thought she would be as anxiety-wracked as the first time she had visited him, three years ago – yet now that the moment had come, she didn't feel afraid. She didn't really feel much of anything.

One way or another, only one of them was going to survive this confrontation.

She turned back to the car, to Dr. Sartain, who seemed transfixed by what was happening. "Get them out of here!" she shouted. She might very well die, she knew that now – but she would not let her children die, she would not let them fall victim to her family. Dr. Sartain jerked back to life. She stumbled away from the car, sweeping her arm as if that might push her children out of harm's way. "Get out of here! GO!"

She heard Sartain put the car back into drive. She turned, and ran out of range of the headlights, ran towards the forest where Michael was still walking towards her. She could see the knife in his hand and feel that implacable gaze on her, and the distance was closing, closing.

Thirty feet...

It felt as if her entire life had been leading up to this moment, and she shivered; as if she had been born and survived just to reach this point. A kaleidoscope of memories fell around her, whether real or made-up, she no longer cared: Angel Myers in her crib while her big brother slaughtered her family; Laurie Strode living a happy fifteen years in ignorance of her heritage; Halloween, her friends dead, her family dead, fighting Michael off; Laurie Lloyd trying to build a new family with her husband and children; and now, Laurie alone, her visits a failure, preparing to sever the hateful connection that kept her bound to the shape of a human being that was advancing on her.

Twenty feet...

_Do you truly believe he will restrain himself from his deepest instincts, for you?_

Fifteen feet...

_…the only person he's never shown any notion of hurting…_

Ten feet...

_You occupy an almost privileged position..._

Deputy Hawkins as he was gutted in front of her –

_...may well be the only person Michael even listens to..._

Jamie and John screaming as he lunged through the window at them -

_I didn't want this!_

Five feet...

Just do this and she could be free.

Just do this and her children could be safe.

Just do this and she would not have to live with burden of having to watch over her shoulder, of having to watch _him_ , of always delaying the inevitable, of the weight of every injury and death ( _Judith and Deborah, Mason and Cynthia, Lynda and Annie_ ) on her.

Four...

_I would not blame others for doing what is necessary…_

Three...

She could barely feel the gun in her hands, and she squeezed her fingers around it tighter, the weight of the barrel, the depressing of the trigger.

Two...

Laurie pushed the gun up and shouted, " _Michael!_ "

The shape stopped.

The world hovered on the edge of her words, his stillness.

_...not blame others for doing what is necessary…_

He was close, so close to her. She could make out the creases in his clothing, dark stains, the cracks of his mask. She felt as if she were standing over an abyss that was opening up to swallow her. Every nerve in her body was at once on fire and deadened, feeling and hearing and seeing the chill of the wind and the ghostly glow of distant lights and the tiny details of the trees.

_...doing what is necessary..._

The dark shape took another step. They might have touched each other if they both reached out. Laurie gave a tiny gasp, gun lowering – and saw him stop again.

A tilt of the head. Laurie, swallowing hard, had the distinct feeling of being examined. She held the gun steady, not raised, but not fully lowered.

Apparently finished with that, he moved a further step forward. Laurie's breath caught; she forced herself not to move back. She had to crane her head up to see his masked face now. If she fired, it would be impossible to miss him at this distance.

_...what is necessary..._

She put her finger on the trigger –

_What is necessary._

Laurie closed her eyes. Breathed. And liftd the gun.

_Thunk._

The sound seemed to travel through the air, through the ground, through her body, freezing her every muscle. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

He had dropped the knife.

Laurie could feel the air rasping her throat.

He had stopped, perhaps only a foot from her, looking down at her. He had drawn even closer while her eyes were shut, so near to her that, even in the dark, she could see not just the cracks, but the fine lines and tiny wrinkles of his mask, the still-wet blood from where he had been shot. She thought that if she looked hard enough, she might even make out his eyes within the mask.

And he was not holding the knife. He was standing, unarmed, before her, and she could feel the familiar weight of his stare – had the sense that as hard as she had been looking at him, trying to find his eyes under the mask, he was doing the same to her.

Slowly, he moved the hand that had been holding his knife, until the palm faced outward, towards her.

Laurie's chest heaved, a small choking sound escaping her. Still so slowly, almost tentatively, he lifted his hand – just a few inches, but they were so close she could discern every change in posture and movement. And she remembered a day when she and her children had been in danger, and sitting next to a hospital bed with his palm up and she had whispered her thanks to him, and he had responded to her... and visits, so many visits afterwards –

Was this what he wanted?

She lowered the gun, took her finger off the trigger, and closed the distance. Tilting her head up, she looked up at the mask again, quelling the quivering in her fingers. Michael remained still for one second, then bowed his head very slightly.

Laurie let out a breath. Remembered another time when he had done exactly this… remembered so many visits when he had let her look, let her touch. Remembered the way his eyes looked – like he was asking, like he was allowing her. She could feel her grip on the gun loosening.

Was this all he had wanted?

She searched his mask, his eyes, for that permission. Found them, let herself be held for a moment.

All that he wanted…

She let the gun fall, heard its soft landing as if from a great distance.

He was still holding his hand out towards her, just a tiny distance from his body, but she knew. She had not visited him for three years to not know what he wanted. She had always known what he wanted.

Very gently, she took his hand, ignoring the dried blood caking his skin. She thought she heard him breathe out, long and low, and felt his fingers press against hers.

Hesitantly, she took a half-step towards him, then another when he made no move to stop her. She was standing right in front of him now, separated by maybe an inch of space. Her neck ached from looking up at him, but she ignored it. Reaching up, she gripped the mask, felt its texture, rubbery and warm, against her fingertips, and pulled.

It came off in one smooth movement, and she let it fall as well. His long hair fell in strands across his face, but not enough to obscure its outline, not enough that Laurie could not still see his eyes.

She sighed and let her head drop, felt his hand press harder against hers. Her body no longer felt either on fire or numbed. It felt lighter, looser, as if some inner instinct was telling her to just let go. Let it pass. Release it. For a moment she railed against it, the memories pressing against her, but then she let that flow past her too.

Still following that tiny, inside voice, mind empty of anything else, she pressed closer. There was no space separating them at all. She did not think she had ever been this close to him, not of her own free will; even in the institution she had guarded herself from him, kept a safe distance. Standing so near him, she could sense the heat of his body, smell the metallic stench of blood, mixed with the acridness of sweat and oil, but she closed her mind off to that too. In this moment, she just wanted to rest.

So she did, closing her eyes again and just letting herself lean against her brother for a moment. Let herself focus on the squeeze of his fingers against hers, the rough fabric of his clothing on her skin. From somewhere above, she heard another breath, warm against the crown of her head... then a slight pressure against the same spot. She thought that Michael might be leaning against her too.

They stayed like that, for a long moment.

* * *

Watching the scene in front of him, Dr. Sartain thought he should have expected this to happen.

But it was ultimately of no importance. It just meant he had to resort to his other plan.

He pushed down the handbrake and turned to the girl and boy sitting behind him.

"Now, children," he said, "perhaps you would like to go for a ride?"

* * *

Laurie opened her eyes at the sound of a crash. She tilted her head back, feeling it brush against something hard above her.

"What was-"

A blaring horn broke through the night before cutting off abruptly, and Laurie leaped back, hand coming loose from Michael's. In the distance, she could hear screaming.

"Oh God."

She ran forward, not understanding, not able to see clearly in the dark – but she _could_ see the unmoving headlights of a car, jutting not forward but _up_ into the inky darkness. Laurie picked up her pace, an alarm in the back of her mind – _wrong, wrong, wrong_ – she was coming up the edge of the embankment, following the lights, which were _below_ the rise of the hill -

" _Mom! MOM!_ "

"John!" she shouted, clambering the last few feet. "Jamie! Hold on-"

She halted as she came upon the scene, slipping on the grass and loose soil. The police car had rolled down the hill, falling on its left side. This close to the headlights, she could see cracks webbing the windshield, great dents in the hood and the sides where the car had hit the ground as it went tumbling off the embankment.

"Jamie! John!" She ran forward. In her peripheral vision saw Dr. Sartain push open the right passenger door and heave himself out, pulling with his unbroken arm, but he was not badly injured and she brushed past, she had no time for him –

Laurie flung herself towards the car, banging her legs against the mechanisms on its belly. The car was so big she had to throw herself forward on her stomach to even reach the door – and her children were still screaming –

"Hold on!" she yelled, and wrenched at the handle, but it wouldn't budge.

A warm breath of air brushed against her right cheek. Forgetting what she was doing for a second, she turned.

Horror clenched her stomach. _Fire._ The crash must have ruptured a fuel tank, or hit an electrical wire, or both, and now there was a small flame burning the grass underneath.

"Get out!" she screamed, and threw herself at the door. "John, Jamie, you have to get out of there!" But the fire was spreading, the warmth growing into a pervasive _heat_ , and she still could not see her children, only hear them howling for her –

Then she felt an arm wrap around her waist. There was no time to struggle; her feet left the ground as she flew through the air. She landed hard on her side halfway up the embankment, and lay there for a second, winded, before comprehending what she was seeing in front of her.

Michael was at the car; he was so tall he could reach the handle, even the window of the door, with little effort. But he wasn't bothering trying to open it – instead, he was raising an arm and –

Glass shattered. Laurie heard one of her children cry out.

She scrambled to her feet and ran to the car, ignoring the growing heat, the fire that was beginning to spread not just across field but to the car – saw Michael plunge an arm down through the broken window – then one of John's hands latch onto the window edge, the other holding his uncle's arm. She hurled herself against the car as far as she could, groping until she felt hair, clothing, grabbing her son by the back of the shirt and tugging –

They collapsed to the ground, John slipping through the window and sliding across the car door to land on her stomach with an _oof!_ She pushed him back, away from Michael and the car, but –

"Where's Jamie?" she said. John was panting, there was a cut across his forehead and a bruise on his cheek, and his costume was torn in several places across his shoulders and arms, but she grabbed him. "John, _where's your sister_?"

And he cried, "She hit her head – I was trying to get her up but she wouldn't wake up, I couldn't –"

_Shit!_ Laurie pushed him out of the way – Jamie unconscious, probably lying all the way at the bottom of the car and she wouldn't be able to get out, and neither she nor Michael could reach her –

She ran back to the car, felt another wave of heat but did not think of it. Michael was wrenching at the door now, metal bending with the force of his grip.

The wave became a blast of heat. Laurie let out an exclamation, forced away from the passenger door. The fire had bloomed, was spreading in thin lines all over the dead grass, up the hood of the car. There was no time, she thought frantically, no time to force the back door open, no way to get in through the front because of the grille, no means to open the door because it was a police car, couldn't get in or out without –

"The keys!" she shouted, and remembered – Hawkins tossing the keys to Dr. Sartain – and she spun, ran back up the hill where Dr. Sartain was standing, watching the fire, the car, motionless from what she could only assume was horror.

"Dr. Sartain," said Laurie as she reached him, "please, I need the keys..."

She stopped. Dr. Sartain had retrieved the gun she had dropped.

He was pointing it at her.

The gunshot cracked the air. Laurie's side jerked as if she had been punched.

Surprised, she looked down, but it was so dark she could not see anything wrong. It just felt… bruised. She touched her side. Her legs felt like jelly. She staggered slightly as she brought her fingers up. It was sticky. Wet. There was a metallic smell.

Blood.

It was at that point that her legs became incapable of supporting her.

Sartain stood over her. "So that's what it feels like."

* * *

John was frozen where he stood, unable to decide what to do. His mother was gone, had pushed him away from the car and run off. Jamie was in the car and he hadn't been able to wake her up before his uncle had pulled him out. He should go to her, he should have helped – but the car was far and high and there was a fire spreading and also –

His uncle was there.

His uncle was Michael Myers, just like the kids at school had said, and he had killed someone right in front of John and tried to take Jamie.

But just like before, he had saved him.

John still could not get it all clear in his head. First he was running, then he his mom found him, and a doctor and the officer coming and shooting his uncle, and arguing, and Jamie had been crying, saying their uncle was dead, but John had just felt nothing, nothing…

And then his uncle had woken up, and – he had tried to take them. He had broken the window with just one arm and grabbed Jamie. She had screamed so loudly and John had been so terrified all he could do was hold onto her, and he had been yelling too, and all he remembered thinking was that he could not take Jamie, he could not have Jamie –

But then they had escaped, and during the drive he had told Jamie everything. She had told him about the Boogeyman. She said their uncle had been following her before the police came. And then Mom had told them to leave, but they hadn't, which confused him, and then _something_ had been happening between Mom and Uncle, and the doctor had also been so strange and scary too, but he was driving away, until –

He remembered seeing the hill – thinking that they would stop but instead going _over_ it. The car had rolled and flipped, like a rollercoaster John had been on once but so much worse – the sky and grass all a blur – banging his head and his arm against the seat and the door and Jamie.

The next thing he knew was seeing the doctor crawling away and finding himself lying on top of Jamie, whose head had been bleeding, who had been lying on the broken window against the ground and who hadn't moved at all –

He had thought she was dead. But Jamie couldn't die. She couldn't be dead. She was just sleeping like he had been, so he had shaken and shaken her until he heard the window break – and seen his uncle at the window.

The funniest thing, he remembered now, was that his uncle had not been wearing a mask.

And maybe that was what made him grab onto his uncle's arm. He had tried to grab Jamie too, but his uncle had pulled him out of there so fast he couldn't, and then Mom had been dragging him out, and here he was, scared for Jamie and for his mom and of his uncle.

Metal screamed and John leaped back, thinking – _the car is exploding!_ But it was his uncle was still trying to get the door open.

Because Jamie was in there. He was trying to reach her.

And if he was trying to do that, then John had to help. He couldn't leave Jamie in there! But he did not know how to help, the car was so, so tall, and where was his mom? She had said she would get the keys, but she wasn't here!

Maybe she needed help too, or maybe she was already coming to them. Spurred by that thought, he turned and scrambled up the hill until he saw two figures. One he could see was the doctor, and the other his mom – but why was she on the ground? And why was the doctor pointing a gun at her?

He stood, totally confused, and called for his mother.

* * *

Laurie clutched her side, trying to stem the pain, the blood. She felt, once again, the sense of being a watcher in her own body, her brain unable to comprehend anything happening to her. The crackling fire, the screaming, and Dr. Sartain, still with his gun trained on her – none of it made sense, none of it fitted with any conception of the world as she knew it.

"You appear surprised," Dr. Sartain said. He was breathing heavily. "Michael Myers has been my inspiration my entire career, essential to my understanding of the predator. The _true_ predator, Ms. Strode: remorseless, pitiless evil." He let out a deep sigh. "No understanding, no mercy. No _feeling_. I wanted to know what drives them. What it feels like. What _pleasure_ they gain from it."

Laurie pushed herself up on her elbow and gasped as pain lanced up her side. But she had to chance a look back, had to see if her children had made it out. She tried desperately to find their tiny forms in the darkness, but with the car below the embankment, she could see nothing except the lights and the flickering of flames.

"I studied so many candidates, but all for nothing. You do not realize how ordinary evil can be, Ms. Strode, not until you have seen what I have. So easily comprehended. Driven by greed, or warped by abuse, seeking attention or satisfaction for their sexual perversions. So unsatisfactory, so fathomable – until Michael. I looked into those black eyes and saw nothing but pure instinct. No taint of compassion or empathy, not even the capacity for it. Only ruthless immorality."

His eyes were distant, enraptured. Then he looked at Laurie, and what she saw there sent a chill through her. "Until you came. The sister. And there it was. The flaw of feeling. A mar on that perfect blankness. The way he _looked_ at you… I half believe this man might try to do good, just for you."

The pain wasn't just spreading; it was metamorphosing into a weakness in her legs, in her arms, her hands. Feeling the beginnings of panic once more, she tried to look back again. The glow was burning brighter than ever; the fire was spreading fast, and if it continued – if the car began to burn, with Jamie trapped inside, John so near –

And if they survived – if she didn't make it – there was Dr. Sartain, whom she had liked, had spoken to, and who had turned out to be... this. And what would he do to her children?

"I suppose I should have expected it," the doctor was musing, more to himself than to Laurie. "The mother... I knew she had had some influence on him. Dr. Loomis too, before he left. But you remained. You insisted on coming to visit him every week, reminding him. Keeping him quiet. Allowing him to remain caged. So you see," Dr. Sartain said, now examining the gun with a clinical eye, "I had to remove this taint. Like a surgery to rid the body of a tumor, to allow it to return to a healthy state."

A feeling quite foreign from anything Laurie had ever felt bloomed in her chest – a burning hot coal that damped down the pain, cleared her mind. As long as he was talking… as long as she kept him here… if she could keep him away from Jamie and John… if Michael could get them out...

"I had hoped you might do it yourself, of course – that given enough of a push, you might be driven to attack him first. Michael's feelings for you may run deep, but even he has his limits... and your death at his hands would solve my problem with little work on my end..."

Laurie felt nausea creeping upon her, a heat. _I would not blame others for doing what is necessary,_ he had told her… all for this purpose…

"Your children might remain a problem, but..." He shrugged. "If the accident has not killed them, they will not survive long at Michael's hands... not once you are gone. He only refrains from attacking because they are extensions of you, after all..." He aimed the gun at her. "Now then –"

Laurie backed away, still clutching her side, but Sartain's movement had made her notice something – something lumpy in his left coat pocket. _The keys_...

"He'll kill you for this," she gasped, speaking for the first time. And oh God, she could not believe what she had just said, that she was relying on her brother for protection just as much as she was trusting him to free Jamie and John. "Michael – he won't – he won't let you –"

"Oh yes, I am sure I will meet my fate at his hands," Sartain said. He seemed to savor the words. "One can only imagine what he will be like, unfettered by his bond with you… He will want his revenge."

He had not lowered the gun. Laurie tried to crawl further away – but her arm struck something hard.

"But before he kills me –"

She reached out.

"– I want to look into those eyes –"

Grasped something rough.

"– and see... true evil."

Wrapped her hand tight.

He aimed the gun and Laurie tensed her arm, curling tight into her own body –

"Mom?"

For a moment Laurie thought she had only imagined hearing that word. A tiny, dark figure stood on the top of the hill, outlined against the orange glow.

"Mom? What – what's going on?"

Sartain looked up.

Laurie didn't.

Gathering up all her energy, she threw herself forward, burying Michael's knife in Sartain's calf; in the same instant, a wave of agony knifed up her entire left side. The doctor howled, kicking, but Laurie, anticipating that, released the knife and lunged up at his arm – the arm holding the gun.

She grabbed at his wrist, latching onto his sling and wrenching. Sartain's shout of pain was even louder, his flailing stronger, but Laurie clung on with a strength she did not know she possessed. The gun went flying.

Sartain kicked out. His foot caught her in the stomach just as she grabbed hold of his coat. For half a second her world went black – she thought she might have gone blind from the pain – there was nothing except a pulsing stabbing hurt from her pelvis to ribs and a hot wetness spreading down her abdomen, and she fell from him, still clutching his coat –

She heard a rip, a jangle of metal, and then something hard and bumpy plopped onto her waist. Panting, she grabbed it, turned to where she knew John was waiting, and hurled it with all the energy left in her.

"John!"

The keys flew through the air, shining a brief yellow from the growing fire. She saw John leap forward –

And catch it.

" _Run!_ " she screamed. "John, _GO!_ "

* * *

It was the crash that awoke Jamie.

She tried to move, but it was strangely hard to do so. Her arm felt terribly heavy; actually, her whole body did. Her head felt much bigger too, so that even though she wanted to get up, because whatever she was lying on was awfully hard and bumpy, she couldn't. Really, everything was a lot warmer and heavier… which almost made her want to lie down and sleep...

_Thump._

Jamie opened her eyes.

For a second, she had no idea what she was seeing. She thought she was looking out a window, but all she could see was the night sky. But how could that be when she was lying on her back? When she looked to her right, she could see the backs of the car seats, but they were all tilted in the wrong direction. In fact, she seemed to be leaning _next to_ the part of the seat she should sit on.

When she looked to the left, she saw a fire, crawling up the hood of the car.

She gasped, tried to get up, but her head spun so badly she collapsed back against the – what was she lying against that was so hard and crackly? She tried to roll, and only then did she see she was pressing on stone and sand – she _was_ lying on the ground.

"Jamie!"

She fell back on her side, head aching, arms shaking. Why was this so hard? "John?" she called, recognizing her brother's voice. Her voice was all croaky, like when she'd get sick with a cold. She _felt_ sick, and moaned as her head thudded with pain again. She could hear crackling, and it was getting very warm now…

"Jamie! You have to get out! _Jamie!_ "

She heard a _swoosh!_ Her eyes widened as she saw the fire again, now at the windshield. She tried to get up – but how could she get out? The door she was closest to was lying on the ground, she couldn't push that open – the window! She had to get to the window! But it was so high, and she could barely even sit up. But she had to try! If she didn't, she would die, she knew she would… She attempted to get up, to pull her heavy body by grabbing the seats, but the leather slipped from her fingers.

"I can't!"

"Hold on!"

The fire hissed. Jamie shrieked – the fire had not just reached the windshield, it was covering it – she couldn't even see anything outside of it, and the car was getting hot, hot enough to make her sweat –

Metal jingling. She saw the door lock flip – a creak, then a _bang!_ The door above her flew open.

But filling the opening was her uncle –

And Jamie remembered everything, remembered him shattering the window and his hand grabbing at her, remembered his fist tearing her dress as the glass cut against her skin and face, and she screamed, high and long, pressing as far back into the ground as she could –

"Jamie!" John was yelling, she could not see him, but she could hear him, just out of sight. "Jamie, _get out_!"

The fire roared like an animal about to swallow her up. She saw her uncle, mask-less, reaching down through the opening for her –

And she remembered one other time when her mother had taken off his mask.

And she remembered when she had walked right up to him ( _are you the boogeyman?_ ) and he had touched her hand.

And she remembered hiding in the alley until he had reached for her, just like now.

Jamie made her decision. Between the fire and her uncle, she'd choose her uncle.

"Come on!" John yelled once more, and Jamie pushed herself up – her head was swimming – clambering up the seat by grabbing the headrest – fingernails tearing – and throwing herself towards the reaching hand –

Which grasped itself around her wrist and hauled her up, up, out of the car.

Jamie saw seats fly past. Her legs were so heavy, dangling in the air, her head was whirling, everything a dark blur. She felt wind on her face, hot air against her cheeks, whipping her hair. Still clinging to her uncle's arm, she felt him halt, adjust his grip – then _pull_ –

And then she was free, save for a big hard vise pressing on her, and she grasped frantically to the body holding her, watching the world spin and turn.

"Come on!" John was shouting, somewhere below her. Jamie felt herself being dropped to the ground, and she fell to her hands and knees, but then someone grabbed her by the back of her collar. The ground fell away, wind in her eyes as she was launched up the hill –

She hit the ground with a _whoof!_ Coughed, tried to get in air, a wave of sickness passing through her. Behind her, she could hear the car creaking, the fire sizzling. Fast steps, and then she heard John yelling, tugging at her. Jamie was blind, could not focus, could do nothing but feel dry grass and dirt, but she _climbed_ – she grabbed and climbed and felt John keep pulling at her, heard his footsteps and another beside her, much heavier…

Uncle.

A brush of air past her cheek, and Jamie heard and felt him moving, moving _fast_ , up the hill beside her and passing her. She rubbed her eyes and looked.

Her uncle was rising over the hill, and with the fire backlighting him, she saw his head turn and fix on something further away… something too high up the hill for her and John to see.

And then he was moving.

* * *

The fire lit up the sky.

Completely aflame, the light of the massive car fire illuminated the meadow, the forest, the house. Then it shrank, sinking back into a low burn, before soaring upwards, then dying down. Laurie paused for only a second of shock – _her children, where were her children, had they gotten out?_

She rolled over and, hand grasping her throbbing side, pushed herself to her feet. Muscle tore with every movement and she had to bite back a scream. Staggering away from the still-screaming doctor, she began to stumble towards the burning car, each step sending further lashes through her torso –

Then, heart in her throat, Laurie saw two small figures scrambling up the hill. Her children had made it.

And were running straight for her – straight for Dr. Sartain.

"Mom?"

"Mommy!"

"John, Jamie, run!" Laurie screamed, but her voice sounded weak even to her… _No, not here, don't come here!_ she could only think, pushing herself forward even as her strength left her.

A crack broke the air, and this time Laurie could not hold back a cry as she felt something explode into the back of her thigh. She fell half-down, knees and hands catching the ground, and she could feel it, feel something hard and _foreign_ rubbing against muscle and bone but kept scratching through grass and soil to keep going – she couldn't stop – _had to keep moving_ –

Another crack. This time it was like being punched in the lower back – she pitched forward, hands out, landing on her stomach and her already-injured side ablaze with the worst pain she had felt yet –

Shuffling footsteps behind her. Panting. A wet ripping sound and metallic clink as a knife was tossed away. Then a click.

Laurie, vision gone white, knew without looking that the doctor was behind her, that he had retrieved his gun, and that it was now aimed at her head.

She tried to stand, to face him, but could not, there was no strength left in her limbs. There were dark spots clouding her vision now – the adrenaline of the last few moments was leaving her. A haze was settling over her brain, bringing a calm numbness that not even her last thoughts could dissipate: that her children had survived the accident only to die at Sartain's hands. And all she could think that it was merciful, a mercy to not see her own children die in front of her –

"So they got out," said Sartain calmly, watching the two figures. He brought the gun down for the last time. "But it does not matter. Once it is over, I will understand... I will be able to see the eyes of –"

A wet thud. Sartain stopped mid-sentence, a look of vague surprise coming over him.

Laurie flinched back as a gray mask loomed out of the darkness behind the doctor. For a moment it seemed to float, disembodied – then it coalesced into a black form, a shining blade.

Michael had returned. He had retrieved his knife from where Sartain had thrown it and she did not need to see to know that he had lodged it down to the hilt in Sartain's back.

Sartain made a tiny choking noise. His arm dropped, the gun falling from his grasp.

Laurie knew she should move, but she was too transfixed by what was happening in front of her to do so. As Sartain began to sag, Michael grabbed him by the back his neck and turned him around to face him.

"Michael..." Sartain said weakly. A ragged breath. "Look… look at me…"

Michael dropped him.

Laurie gagged as he fell, turning away – tried to find her children in the darkness. She heard steps, more gasping, and looked back almost against her will. She saw Michael, head cocked, staring at the dying doctor, and Laurie could only wonder what Sartain was seeing right then, as he looked up into that blank mask, into those eyes. Was it that pure, remorseless evil he had spoken about? Was it rage?

Was it nothing at all?

Michael leaned down then, grabbing Sartain by the collar and hauling the man up. He did not raise his arm to stab him. He only drew it in a slow horizontal movement across Sartain's abdomen. Laurie could not see what he did, blocked from view by Sartain's own body. But she heard it – a slow ripping of cloth and flesh. She lay frozen – then turned away in horror and disgust as she saw something glistening start to fall from and _out_ of Sartain, piling on the ground in long hanks.

She crawled now, though her entire body felt like a lead weight, leaving her brother to his task – moved toward her children, standing frozen several feet in front of her.

"Hey…" she whispered, and reached out for them, not caring if her hands were bloody, just thankful they were safe, _alive_.

"Mommy..." Jamie's eyes were wide. Her forehead was bleeding and the hair on the back of her head looked matted, and Laurie didn't want to think what had happened to her – even as she watched, Jamie swayed, struggling to keep balance.

John tentatively tried to reach out to her. "Mom, are you –"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Laurie lied, and tried to smile, knowing that bloodied as she was, it had to be frightening; that she was fooling absolutely nobody. She felt so tired, but she had to get out of here, had to get to the road. From somewhere behind her she heard a thud. Jamie and John started to look up, but Laurie grabbed their hands.

"No – no – focus on me, okay?" Some remnant of her sanity knew she had to do that – had to maintain the little bit that remained of her children's innocence. "Come on… to the road… come on…"

Obediently the twins turned around, following her instructions like robots. Laurie thought they might be in shock. Behind them there was a heavy thump. A shudder ran through her and she closed her eyes briefly. Sartain had gotten what he had expected. Even he had known that he would not have survived Michael's rage for what he done to his little sister.

The fire from the car was still going, and she thought vaguely, _Good, somebody has to have seen that, somebody will come_. The numbness remained, beckoning to her to just give in, calm, serene.

But her children… she could not abandon Jamie and John here, not in their state. She had to get to the road, which was so far, and her injured leg could not support her. So she shook back that soothing cloud and crawled, on her hands and one knee, dragging the other leg. Dimly, she was aware of pain, but it was like she was not fully registering it, like her mind had detached itself from her body.

As she pulled herself, inch by aching inch, John came out of his own shocked state for a second and tried to lift her arm, but she shook her head, pushed him back.

"No, help your sister –" Jamie had stumbled to her knees, her chest heaving, "– take her – get her to the road –"

Then, in the distance, she saw the flash of police headlights.

"Come on!" she gasped. The cold air stabbed her lungs. "Come on, we have to get back to the road, come on –!"

And she stumbled, lurched, crept up the hill, grasping grass and clods of dirt, one hand held on her side, the other stretching for each patch of ground. John was pushing up Jamie, who wobbled like she was half drunk, but still he tried, tried to hold her up while giving his mother a push, give what little help someone so young and small could give.

Then John went pale. He fell back, eyes riveted to something – _someone_ – high above him.

Laurie did not need to look to know who it was.

She felt, more than saw or heard, that presence – _Michael_ – lean down. His arms slid under her, brushing against her wounds. He rolled her over, so for a moment she was staring straight up at him. It was so dark he was only a faceless outline against the starry sky, and for one terrified second she wondered if she was about to become one of his victims – if this was the last thing her parents had seen, Lynda had seen –

But then he tucked his arms under her and she felt the solidness of the ground leave her as he scooped her up. Every muscle in her body went rigid as he shifted her so that she was lying on her back. If she stared straight ahead, she was looking directly at his mask, and she was so startled at what was happening she forgot all about the pain of being hoisted and moved about. Another second passed, as if he was letting her settle. Then he began walking across the field.

And Laurie, now on the edge of hysteria, knew she ought to be terrified, but could only muster up a surreal gratefulness.

They strode in silence towards the road; Michael was so tall and unencumbered by his own injuries that they were soon almost there. Laurie was beginning to feel very light-headed, the pain less noticeable, even though every one of her brother's steps should have been agony. There were a few seconds, or perhaps moments, when she would lose track of herself, slipping into a kind of half-daze. Sometimes she would spot Jamie and John hurrying in his wake, so small they could barely keep pace, though she thought at some point that Michael slowed down just enough for them to catch up.

The flashing lights were definitely drawing nearer by the time they reached the edge of the road, and she could discern the wailing of the sirens. Laurie lifted her head from where she had been resting (against his shoulder, one arm hanging about his neck, she had been resting against her brother's _shoulder_ ). Her entire left side of her abdomen, and the back of her right side, was sticky with blood, her fingers stiff with it.

"Let – let me –" she started to say, but either Michael knew what she wanted or had already anticipated her, because he started to lower her down – no, she realized, as she felt a pressure beneath her, against her back – he was kneeling down, still carrying her, so that she was half sitting, half lying on his legs.

Jamie and John collapsed beside her. John was breathing harshly from having to support Jamie almost the entire way; Jamie herself was all too pale in the moonlight, her head wound livid and dark.

The sirens were coming closer. She could make out the beams of their headlights, round yellow circles growing ever larger.

And Michael remained, simply kneeling there with Laurie resting against him. Even as the wails grew louder, as she began to make out each separate car, he made no move to rise. Made no indication that he was going to do anything other than remain here, waiting, with her. _For_ her.

_I half believe this man might try to do good, just for you…_

She knew then, with that inner instinct that she had trusted back in the field, that he was going to stay with her… stay until the police came or she told him differently...

And when they did come, when they did take her… what might happen? What would they try and do to Michael? Arrest him? Kill him? And what would he do to them?

And Laurie saw with sure clarity what would happen: Michael not comprehending, not letting them take her… not returning quietly to the institution, but resisting, slaughtering as many officers as he could… or the police might not even giving him that chance, seeing only a murderer holding a woman and children hostage. And they would open fire, or he would attack them, massacre as many as possible until he or the police were dead, while Laurie and her children could only watch, trying not to become collateral damage.

And she knew, from some deep reservoir of emotion, what she had to do.

She half pushed, half slid herself away from Michael, sharply aware of the approaching police cars, and told him, "Go."

He seemed to be staring down at her.

"Go," she said again. "Michael, they're coming. Go."

She knew this was wrong. She knew that by all rights, Michael should be incarcerated, that he had killed several innocent people that night, people she had known, that she was letting a serial killer go and placing the town she had grown up in in danger, that she was putting herself and her children at risk.

But she knew – she knew also she could not let him stay and be shot down by the police. Not after what he had just done tonight. Any other time, any other place, she would let him be caught. But right now, just this once, she would let him go.

Perhaps he read all this on her face. Perhaps he was only doing as she said. Or perhaps he simply knew that he could not take on the entire Haddonfield police force. Whatever his reasoning was, he let her move away, and started to stand.

Laurie grabbed his arm, checking his rise. She had just remembered something.

Pulling the two photos from her pocket, trying not to smudge blood on their edges, she pressed them to him. He glanced down as he took them, but if he was surprised or confused by the gesture, he did not show it. She let go of the photos, and saw him place them in a pocket on his uniform. Satisfied, she moved off of him – and then he grasped her wrist.

She stared at him, eyes a little wide, but it didn't hurt, he wasn't squeezing or pulling at her. He was just... holding her arm.

Perhaps he was asking if she would be all right.

She looked into the dark holes of his mask and nodded. He continued to hold on for a moment, and Laurie had that sense once more of being examined. But then, seemingly content with her answer, his grip loosened, allowing her to roll all the way off him. He stood. Laurie thought his hand lingered for a moment over hers, but it might have been her imagination.

He loomed over her for one moment longer, over her children who were crouched next to her, just watching them. Yet for the first time in quite a while, Laurie did not feel intimidated or fearful.

"Go," she said.

He turned and walked off into the darkness. Laurie watched his form striding away, kept looking as the police cars pulled up to the road... did not turn away even as their lights bathed her and Jamie and John in shades of blue and red, until his dark shape had faded into the night.


	8. Aftermath

Seven stitches needed to close the wound.

Penetration of the large intestine, requiring treatment for peritonitis.

Blood work for internal bleeding.

Not to mention bed rest and minimal activity for bruising to the head and back due to being thrown at a car.

At least ten days needed for recovery overall, if he took it slow and didn't re-open any wounds or show signs of infection.

Overall, Deputy Hawkins thought he was pretty damn lucky to be alive.

This was especially considering he barely remembered what he did to get to help. The officers who picked him up had told him that he had taken a civilian car, later identified as belonging to Laurie Lloyd, _nee_ Strode, and driven it, half-conscious, until he practically crashed into another patrolling police car. They said he had tumbled out of the car seat when officers had opened the door, holding a gaping wound in his abdomen, which had hustled the men into getting him to an ambulance.

By all accounts, he had gotten off easy, considering this all happened after a run-in with Michael Myers. And considering what the man had done to his doctor, sister, and a dozen other victims. Including one officer, Officer Francis. Hawkins knew the man. Relatively new to the force, but dedicated, professional. The force was still reeling from his death. So was the rest of the town, from the tragedy they had experienced once again.

And once again, there had been the same survivor. Laurie Lloyd.

And it was because of Laurie Lloyd that he was here, in the hospital on his way to talk to her, when Sheriff Barker had already snapped at him for attempting to come in a week early and told him that off-duty was off-duty and if he didn't haul butt back to his bed, his vacation was going to become permanent. Hawkins settled himself in the chair with some relief, as his wound was twinging his side. He'd already shooed out the doctor and nurse, a dark-skinned and clearly competent young woman with an attitude reminiscent of one of their K9s, who had told told Hawkins in no uncertain terms that he would be kicked out if he caused so much as one spike in the heart rate of her patient.

But he had to get the full story, because what he had now was full of holes, and holes always led to questions, and Hawkins hated questions.

And that was his explanation for sneaking himself here, on his off-duty time, and planting himself in a chair at Laurie Lloyd's side. While he waited, he pulled out a notepad, going over his notes, though by now he had them all memorized.

Mrs. Lloyd… perhaps the only person ever to survive _three_ of Myers's massacres. The first as a baby; the second eleven years ago, during Myers's first escape attempt; and now this.

He had seen photos of what the girl had looked like after the second massacre, and she had definitely come off better this time around. Lying asleep in her bed, she was pale, hair clumped, leg in a cast and hooked up to IVs… but certainly not the battered, torn up mess she had been when Sheriff Brackett retrieved her from the streets of Haddonfield.

But that was the Halloween of eleven years ago. Hawkins's concern was much more recent, and he perused his notes again. The timeline, as near as he could make it out, was this:

At seven o'clock in the evening on October 30th, a bus had pulled away from Smith's Grove with Michael Myers and several dozen other patients locked inside. The bus had crashed some twenty-five minutes later whilst halfway to another facility (cause: unknown), giving Myers the opportunity to escape. Autopsies were still underway, but according to the late Dr. Sartain, it had been Myers who had slaughtered the two guards on the bus before making his way to Haddonfield.

By Halloween morning, after apparently walking nonstop through the night, Myers had reached the gas station, where he either tracked down or encountered Aaron Korey and Dana Haines, investigative crime journalists who had attempted to interview him just a few hours earlier, and who just happened to be carrying the mask he had worn whilst committing his second series of murders. Myers had proceeded to kill them and two mechanics working at the station, stealing a jumpsuit and his mask.

By the evening of October 31st, he had been back in Haddonfield, hunting the streets. His movements were easiest to trace here. First he had taken possession of a knife belonging to one Gina Panchella, a housewife and mother who had apparently caught him breaking in. He might have left it at that, had her neighbor, one Andrea Wagner, not been unlucky enough to catch sight of him. She had fled, only for Myers to follow and slaughter her – as well as her teenage daughter and her boyfriend, who happened to be upstairs.

So far, so good. It appeared that Myers then turned his attention to his family members. He went after his niece first, who had been trick-or-treating with a friend, Billy Hill. Hawkins and Dr. Sartain had interrupted him and managed to get young Billy home; while all that was going on, Myers had tracked down his nephew and murdered Officer Francis in attempt to get to the boy. Luckily, Mrs. Lloyd (who had also been wandering the streets for her children) and Hawkins himself had confronted Myers before it could go any further.

And then… this was where Hawkins's own recollections entered the area of inferences. After injuring Hawkins, Mrs. Lloyd, her children, and Dr. Sartain had piled into his police car and driven from the scene, stopping at the end of Cherrywood Lane, a dead-end street that led to the fields and forests bordering the edges of Haddonfield. Apparently the former Sheriff Brackett and his daughter had owned the house there, and Mrs. Lloyd had lived with them briefly after the events of Halloween over a decade ago. There was no evidence to suggest that she had ever returned there after her marriage, which made it a bit of a mystery as to why she and Dr. Sartain had chosen to drive to such an isolated area.

A mystery... unless Mrs. Lloyd had been pulling some kind of self-sacrificial stunt, getting herself and her brother as far away from the town as possible. From what he'd seen of her, it was certainly within Mrs. Lloyd's capacity. Almost heroic, he supposed. In any case, it had worked; what traces they could find of Myers showed he had indeed followed his sister there, sparing the townspeople further casualties.

But from there was where investigations devolved into a tangled mess. At some point, the police car holding the doctor and Lloyd family had crashed down an embankment. The accident had ruptured the gas tank and disrupted the wiring, leading to a fire that ended in a massive burnout, engulfing the entire vehicle. The fire had been such that both nearby officers and residents had spotted it and called it in, at which point police had begun making their way towards the scene.

The occupants had survived, obviously, though what Hawkins could not quite figure out was _how_ they had crashed – even at night, it was obvious where the road ended, and the embankment should have been visible. The investigating officer had suggested that whoever was driving had seen Myers behind them and panicked... though how Myers had overtaken a speeding car _that_ fast was beyond Hawkins. The old legends of him being able to disappear and reappear at will were only ghost stories for children...

At any rate, the accident was corroborated by the injuries on the two Lloyd children. The boy, John, had sustained only minor cuts and bruises. Though he had been hospitalized along with his mother and sister, he had been released the next day. The parents of his frequent babysitter, the Carruthers, had generously agreed to house him until his mother was deemed fit to leave. Repayment, apparently, for Mrs. Lloyd had found their daughter, one Rachel Carruthers, wandering the streets after curfew and had insisted on driving her safely home. The girl, Jamie, had received a minor concussion and head wound which had kept her in the hospital for another day for observation, but after exhibiting no further symptoms, she too was released to the Carruthers. Both had confirmed that the car had rolled down the hill and that was how they had been injured.

The investigating officer had then theorized that, after freeing themselves from the wreck, the doctor, Mrs. Lloyd, and her children had been confronted with Myers. Hawkins's own gun had been found at the scene, likely lifted by Mrs. Lloyd during their first confrontation with Myers, so the investigator had deduced that Dr. Sartain, attempting to protect the Lloyds, had tried to shoot Myers. Yet only three bullets had been fired, and all three had been found in Mrs. Lloyd, suggesting that Sartain was a very poor shot (the officer had written).

The other theory the officer had proposed was that Myers himself had picked up the gun and used it to try to kill his sister. But Hawkins had his doubts about that. He may not know much of anything about Myers, but he did know that his MO tended to involve knives, bludgeoning weapons, and his own bare hands. Somehow, grabbing a gun and firing it at his potential victims did not fit the man.

However she received her injuries, Mrs. Lloyd had nevertheless managed to drag herself and her children away from the scene while Myers preoccupied himself with slaughtering his doctor, which according to the autopsy, had been quite thorough and prolonged – a stab wound to the spinal column, then disembowelment, then a slow bleeding out before finishing the job off with multiple slashes to the chest and face. Then he had... simply walked off? The investigator had hypothesized that Myers had heard the incoming police and made his escape, leaving his wounded sister for dead at the end of the road, where the police had found her and her children.

It made sense, Hawkins supposed.

But only on a surface level, for as soon as he tried to dig deeper, more questions came up than answers. If it was Sartain firing (and they had found his fingerprints all over the gun), how did he miss so badly as to only hit Mrs. Lloyd? Why had Sartain also sustained wounds to the leg and arms that were too low, too small, and too shallow for someone of Myers's build? Why was it that the investigating officer could only follow Mrs. Lloyd's dragging, shambling blood trail a few feet before it suddenly disappeared – before it was replaced with large, heavy footprints – as if she had crawled her way only so far before being scooped up by _someone_ and deposited where the police had found her?

And then there were the children's stories. According to them, the accident had taken place later; their mother had exited the car alone and met with her brother herself, though they were confused on what exactly she had been doing. They insisted that Dr. Sartain _deliberately_ drove the car down the embankment. That they had been rescued from the burning car by _Myers_. That the doctor had never confronted their uncle at all, that he had been far from the accident with their mother. They had no idea how she had been injured (though both suspected the doctor), but what they agreed on was that it was their uncle – Myers – who had carried their mother to the road himself, and then simply left, doing them no further harm.

Obviously that made no sense. The investigating officer had concluded that the car accident had damaged the children's memories. The sheriff had chalked it up to them being in shock. But Hawkins had seen John and Jamie Lloyd himself, and while rattled, they had been quite sure of what they had seen.

Which was why Hawkins was here to talk to Mrs. Lloyd herself.

Hawkins glanced at her again. Her injuries had been rather serious; she had been fortunate to have been brought to a hospital so soon. Lucky too, that only one of the bullets that had hit her had penetrated an organ – the small intestine, specifically, so that like Hawkins, she had had to be kept in the hospital for treatment for infection and blood loss. The one in her back had lodged itself in her flesh, necessitating further surgery to remove it, but with no risk of spinal injury. And the one in her leg had hit bone, fracturing her femur, but at least had missed the artery, which would have caused her to bleed out in minutes. All of this meant much longer care and time in the hospital for Mrs. Lloyd, though she was at least conscious for most of the day now.

Such as now, as she stirred awake. Her eyes widened slightly when she took him in, bent over slightly in his chair to account for his still-healing wound.

"Deputy Hawkins," she said, starting to sit up, then wincing.

"Try not to move, Mrs. Lloyd."

She began to shake her head and seemed to instantly regret it. "No, it's just – I'm glad you're alive."

He managed a small smile. "Bit of a miracle, and had to spend some time here myself, but yes. Though not as long as you'll be here."

She made a grimace, fingers curling. She had acquired the distant look Hawkins was by now familiar with. "Sorry. Just remembering the last time I was here."

"You going to be okay?"

She nodded, attempting a smile, then frowned. "Have you spoken to my children?"

"Yes. In fact, that's why I'm here."

She went pale – or rather, paler than she already was. "What happened? Are they okay? Did they –"

He held up a hand. "They are fine, last time I checked. Actually, what I was speaking to them about – off the record, since I'm technically not supposed to be back on-duty – was what happened last week on Halloween."

She looked at him, and Hawkins was disconcerted to see her face close off, eyes wary. "Halloween?"

"Well, yes. Obviously we want to find out what happened and what to do next, so we are speaking to all witnesses and persons involved, including your children."

"And what did my children say?" She looked straight at him as she spoke, but Hawkins had the sense that she was choosing each word carefully.

He looked steadily back at her, trying to project assurance. "Can I ask you first what _you_ saw happen?"

That closed off look became even stronger, the wariness turning into something akin to fear; Hawkins had the distinct feeling of being with a trapped animal. "I don't remember," she said, too quickly. "Everything happened so fast, it's all confused in my head."

"Mrs. Lloyd." Hawkins shifted forward in his seat. "I think you and I both know that's not the truth."

She just looked at him, and Hawkins felt his suspicions rise. There was something else here, something that neither the investigating officer nor her children had let on, and the strangest thing was he had no idea what it was or _why_ she would not want to tell him. Surely she, of all people, would want to get to the bottom of this Myers case… to make sure the man was no longer plaguing their town.

He cast about for some way to gain her trust. It seemed like she was refusing to speak because she was _afraid_ of the police, for some reason. Well, he was not here as a cop, technically...

"Mrs. Lloyd, we've already done a thorough investigation of the scene. Here's what we came up with." He gave a quick rundown of what they had uncovered.

She said, "If that's what they said happened, then that's what happened."

Again, that too-fast response. "Perhaps it was," he conceded, "and Sheriff Barker has no interest in pursuing the matter further. Given that Myers is still at large, he wants all our energies focused on catching him – but between what I read and your children's statements, there are... holes. Particularly in Dr. Sartain's actions, and yours, and Myers's."

"And you want me to fill them." That trapped look was back.

He made an open gesture with his hands. "Nothing is being recorded. The investigation is already in the process of being closed. Whatever you say will not affect anything we do. This will be completely off-the-record."

This time, her gaze seemed different, directed inward. It reminded him of that moment right before Myers had attacked him, when Laurie Lloyd had been crouched near her car, when Dr. Sartain and he had both appealed to her. He had not been able to identify her expression than, but he had had a sense of what she was thinking , the same sense he was feeling now: that she was debating with herself, that there was something here she _wanted_ to do, but had so far refused to.

When she looked at him again, it was with the posture of someone readying themselves. "You won't believe anything I say," she told him.

"Try me."

"And… you will not agree with what I did."

He frowned momentarily. "I highly doubt that, Mrs. Lloyd."

A bitter half-smile twisted her mouth. "Then..." She hesitated. "All off-the-record?"

"Off-the-record."

A beat. Then she began to talk.

When it was over, Hawkins just sat back, his wound aching worse than ever. Her account had closed up the holes, but it had also given him with a lot more questions.

And it left him wondering who exactly this woman was.

"So, according to you, Dr. Sartain was the big bad guy behind everything?" The thought was discomfiting; the short, squat little doctor, obsessed with his own patient to such an extent?

She nodded, closing her eyes for a moment. She was leaning back against her pillow, face a little paler than before; retelling her story had taken a great deal of energy.

"Which I guess…" And here was where things shifted from disconcerting to downright disorienting, "…makes Michael Myers the hero of this entire thing."

Her eyes snapped open and she sat up. " _No,_ " she said, with more strength than he had heard so far. "He's not a hero. He might have saved my children, but it does not make him a hero." She laid back against her pillow, body sagging. "Not after... after everything he's done."

"And _will_ do, because of what you have done."

Her jaw clenched, but she did not deny it. And now Hawkins knew what Laurie Lloyd had been thinking on Halloween night, why he had not been able to figure out her expression – not because he could not identify it, but because he had refused to. It had not been satisfaction or relief on Laurie Lloyd's when he had shot down Myers; it had been _conflict_.

" _Everything_ he has done..." Hawkins could not fathom it, "…and you let him leave."

"I _owed_ him." Her voice was rough. "He saved me. He saved my _children_."

"And you believe that this makes up for it? Redeems him?" Perhaps Mrs. Lloyd was suffering one of those syndromes psychologists liked to toss around – Stockholm's or something.

" _No._ No, it never will. But I-" She paused, fingers clenching her hospital blanket. "He got us out. He took me – would have stayed with me until – I couldn't let him be killed –" She rushed on. "You know he wouldn't go back. I couldn't just let all those people – let _him_ – die like that. They wouldn't have tried to – he would have killed all your men..."

But Hawkins knew her concern was superficial, that she was merely trying to justify what she had done. "Mrs. Lloyd." He leaned towards her. "You know it's what he deserves."

She just looked at him sadly. "I do know. But... he's my brother."

And there it was. Like receiving a key to a chest whose contents he had no understanding of. Because for some incomprehensible reason, Mrs. Lloyd was treating her relationship to Myers not as the biological fluke that it was, but as something significant. _Meaningful._ And that was in spite of everything that had happened to her, her family, her friends, her children; despite the fact that Myers had shown no inkling of similar feelings back.

Mrs. Lloyd released a breath. "He's my brother," she said again. "And I… I owed him." She seemed to cling to those words, fingers twisting in her blanket.

Hawkins could only look at her. It felt as if the entire world had shifted after Halloween, like he had closed his eyes on a world where he knew how everything worked and where each person in his town had fit, and opened them on some alternate timeline, where nothing made sense anymore – not Dr. Sartain, not Myers, and most of all, not Mrs. Lloyd.

He closed his notebook. "You know, I was one of the responding officers that Halloween night, when Myers first broke out." She looked at him, eyes guarded. "I remember it still – all those phone calls. Those teenagers. The house, Myers's body still on the front lawn." He tapped his pen. "I was the one who saw he was still alive. At least four bullet wounds, including one to the head, and the son of a bitch was still breathing. I thought right then about shooting him. Just blowing his brains out on the grass. Still don't know why I didn't. Guess at the time, I felt it wasn't right. Thought the law should deal with him."

She gazed coolly at him.

He stood. "You know why I'm telling you this?"

Her eyes gave away nothing. He wondered if this was what it was like to look in her brother's eyes.

"If I see Myers again in this town," he said, "I'm not hesitating. Whatever he's done or not done, your brother or not, I'm taking the shot."

A beat of that flat stare. Then she nodded. "I didn't think you'd do any less."

There was nothing more to say. Hawkins could only look at this girl, this woman, diminutive, swathed in bandages with a haunted look to her eyes. Mrs. Lloyd. Laurie Strode. Angel Myers. He looked, and he wondered – if it came down to a choice, to save either Hawkins or Myers, who would she choose? Him? Or her brother?

He was afraid to admit that he did not know.

Before he left, he looked back at her one last time. "Good day, Mrs. Lloyd."

"Goodbye, Deputy."

* * *

It was while leaving the hospital that he thought he saw the flash of a mask outside a window, a dark shape half-hidden in the trees.

Despite his wounds, his doctor's orders, he raced out the hospital for the exit, almost running over a candy striper in his haste to scan the nearby grounds.

But there was nothing. He stood, panting in the parking lot, examining the rows of cars, the shadows of each tree. Still nothing, save for a smirking nearby EMT who was shooting him funny looks.

Perhaps there had never been anything, and he was letting the stress get to him.

Myers would not come to the hospital, not without being noticed, and he would certainly not risk being caught just because his sister happened to be recuperating there.

But Hawkins would be ready if he ever did.

Sighing, the deputy got into his car and drove away from the hospital.

* * *

Three days later, Laurie left the hospital, picking her children up from the Carruthers and returning home.

Two weeks later, she made the announcement that she was putting her house on sale.

Five months later, it was done. There had been just enough time for Laurie's fractured leg to heal. With all the papers signed, she, Jamie, and John packed their possessions and left the suburban areas of Haddonfield for the house at the end of Cherrywood Lane.


	9. Recovery

Jamie saw him at recess.

She had eaten her lunch with Billy, who still sat with her and talked with her, even though he never talked about Halloween. Billy then had to leave for his special class (to help with his stutter, he had said), so she had been left alone, since John was with his own friends.

But Jamie kind of liked it this way.

Nobody really bothered her anymore. Kyle and his friends had stopped saying mean things to her. Nobody really even talked to her. Her classmates didn't, and neither did her teacher. Sometimes she felt invisible, because they wouldn't even look at her now. But she didn't mind much. She didn't really feel like talking to anyone either. And since the teacher had stopped constantly telling her to get back to work, it made it a lot easier to just stare out the window all the time, thinking back to…

_(Halloween)_

…thinking about their new house (big and scary and really, really close to where _it_ had happened) and where John was (just in the classroom down the hall, where nothing could happen to him) and where Mommy was (all the way on the other side of the building, which was far away, too far away for Jamie).

Jamie and John had tried to take lunch in Mommy's room once, and Mommy had let them for a while, but she had eventually told them they had to go outside like the other kids. But at least she was at the school with them. At least Jamie could see her sometimes. She thought it was funny how before, having Mommy in the same school had made her want to hide from all the other kids. Now, she just wanted to see her mommy all the time.

She had been so scared that night _(Halloween)_ when the police came and pulled her and John and Mommy apart.

Sometimes she had dreams that the police took Mommy away and she never came back. That they told her that she and John had to live with the Carruthers forever. She had been so scared that the first week Mommy came back, she'd asked if she could sleep with Mommy in her room. Mommy had hugged her and told her everything was okay and let her. Later, Jamie had just tried to not sleep at all, except she started getting in trouble for napping at school all the time.

But it was still better than dreams about…

_(Halloween)_

Maybe this was why Mommy was talking about pulling her and John out of school and teaching them at home.

And all of that was why Jamie had been alone and wandering near the fence that went all around the playground, and how she saw _him_.

Uncle.

He'd just been standing there, across the street from the school, hiding in the shadows of the tree. He looked different from the times when she and John and Mommy had visited him in the hospital, and from when she had seen him on… that night. He had a big coat with a hood which hid his face, and he wasn't wearing a mask. Still, Jamie had known it was him.

_(Halloween.)_

Jamie also had nightmares about him. That night. A few times it was him chasing her through a dark street. Sometimes it was in the car, with fire and everything spinning. But mostly it was when he had tried to grab her. She would wake up crying, and John would wake up too. Sometimes he would crawl in bed next to her. He didn't have bad dreams, he said, he just couldn't sleep very well. He also said she kicked really hard when she dreamed, so it wasn't much fun for either of them. But it felt good to be near him. The doctors had put them in the same room in the hospital, but John got to leave early, so there was one scary, scary night where Jamie was all alone, no John, no Mommy, wondering if they had died or been taken away and she was going to be left all alone.

Most of all, Jamie hadn't wanted to look at or be near her uncle. She had told Mommy that, thinking Mommy would tell her to be a big girl and that Uncle wasn't actually bad. Instead Mommy had nodded and hunkered down to her level and told Jamie that it was fine, that she'd said that she'd been scared of Uncle too, and sometimes she _still_ was, and that it had taken a very long time for her not to be, and if Jamie was scared then Mommy would make sure he never came near her and that she would never, ever have to see him again.

But Jamie _had_ seen him, many times, sometimes at school, sometimes at home. At first she had thought she was imagining it, and she hadn't told anybody at all, because even if Kyle thought she was crazy, she didn't want John and Mommy to think so. But then John had seen him too, and Mommy had overheard them talking and said, yes, he was there. So she'd known her uncle was watching them.

At first she'd been so scared she'd run inside the house to find Mommy, or closed her eyes to not look. She'd even screwed up the courage to ask her teacher for a seat farther from the window so she wouldn't be tempted to stare outside. But after a while, she'd noticed that he had never really done anything to her. And that was a bit strange, because they were all alone now too, in the big house at the end of the road where _it_ happened. The car, and Mommy getting hurt, and Uncle. She had looked at the place where the car had crashed just a few days ago. There was still a big burnt spot where the fire had been, and she had remembered waking up and Uncle grabbing her hand and pulling her out...

Mommy had sighed and told them that she hadn't wanted them to move to this house either, because of everything that had happened. Jamie still didn't like going outside the house because of that. She didn't like going near the hills or fields because of… that night. But Mommy said it was safest here, that they had to be away from the town.

So they were alone, just her and John and Mommy… and Uncle.

Who hadn't done anything to them. Who Mommy said had saved them, once. Who had pulled her out of the car, and carried Mommy when she was hurt, and – Jamie suspected this, deep down – had done something to the strange, scary doctor that had made him go away.

And Mommy had said she was not scared of him anymore.

So now, instead of running, Jamie walked closer to the fence. To her uncle. Even if it made her feel all shivery inside.

Uncle moved behind the tree. She did not see him emerge.

Jamie looked behind her, but all the other kids were playing far from her, and the recess ladies weren't looking at her either. She felt all sneaky, like when she tried to do her homework under her table in class. Still looking behind herself, she continued to walk until she reached a corner of the fence that was half covered with bushes and trees.

She managed not to jump when Uncle stepped out from behind one of those bushes.

Jamie took a big breath, like her Mommy sometimes used to do. She was behind a fence, and he wasn't moving... and Mommy had said she wasn't scared.

"Uncle?"

It was shadowy enough under the bushes and trees that she couldn't have seen his face clearly, even without the hood on, and she had to arch her neck back to look at him. She could tell, when he tilted his head down a bit, that he was looking at her, but otherwise, he didn't move.

_I was scared of him, too,_ Mommy had said. But Mommy could talk to him now; she could be near him.

And she remembered, before the car crash, the fire, before he had broken through a window to grab her… that Uncle had chased her into an alley but had not done a thing, except to stop, and look at her, and hold out a hand…

So Jamie lifted _her_ hand, palm up, and placed it on the fence, watching him warily, the chain-link bumpy against her fingers.

For another moment, he remained unmoving. But then, he stepped close – very close – and bent down to her level, bent down until their faces were almost level. He put his hand on the fence too, right where hers was. His hand was really big. She could feel the heat of his palm against hers, very different from the cold metal, and when she stared into his hood, she could just see his face, covered by strands of his long hair. She smiled tentatively at him, and felt him press his hand harder on the fence, on her hand, fingers curling through the links.

"Hey, girl by the fence!"

Jamie dropped her arm and turned. One of the proctors had found her and was beckoning her over.

"What were you doing over there, kid?" the proctor asked when Jamie had come over.

Jamie tucked her arms behind her back. "Nothing."

The proctor eyed her suspiciously, then glanced back at the fence. "Pretty sure I saw somebody skulking around there. Did they try to talk to you?"

"No." She stared at her feet. "Nobody was there." And indeed, when Jamie turned to look, her uncle was gone.

"Well, if you see anybody, don't talk to them. Especially now, with…" The proctor stopped herself. "Just don't go where we can't see you. Go play on the swing set."

"Yes ma'am."

* * *

"I saw Uncle at recess today."

"I know," John said, looking at his sister. "I saw you."

They were waiting for their mother to pick them up from school; Jamie was swinging her legs as she sat on the bench. Mom would usually pick them up right from their classroom, but sometimes she had really long meetings, so they would wait for her by the office, or Mom would have Rachel come by and take them home. But Rachel wasn't coming around as often, and John preferred it when Mom would just get them. Once he had been sitting at home with Rachel, waiting for what seemed like a long, long time for his mom to come home, getting more and more scared that she wasn't ever going to walk through the door, that something had happened to her…

"He didn't do anything," Jamie told him, eyes big. "He was just looking."

"He's always looking," said John.

Which he was. John had seen him too, many times, a lot of it outside their house, sometimes at school. Once, he even thought he saw him when Mom was shopping, but he hadn't been too sure about that time. He didn't like looking out windows anymore because of that – not his room, or the car, or the classroom.

He wondered if Jamie was going to stop being afraid of Uncle now. Jamie had had a lot of bad dreams lately. For some reason, John didn't, or at least not as much as her. She was always waking him up, or kicking him in her sleep, which he got angry at even though he wasn't asleep anyway. Mom had had to tell him to be nicer to his sister, that what had happened to both of them had been very scary and while it was okay to feel mad or sad, he also shouldn't take it out on other people.

He wasn't being mean though, or at least he wasn't trying to be. He was scared too. _That_ was the problem – _he_ still felt scared, but Jamie didn't.

A lot of the other kids had left the school by now. John hoped Mom would come out soon; his stomach always started aching if she was really late. He saw Molly and waved bye to her as she got into her dad's car; she waved back. That was nice. Jamie had said Kyle and his bully friends had stopped teasing her. He had also stopped talking to John… but that was probably because the one time he did _(It was your uncle, your uncle murdered everybody on Halloween and he's gonna do it again!)_ , John had punched him in the face. He remembered how it felt, like a big hot wave. He had gotten into big, big trouble for that, with his teacher, his principal, and Mom.

But mostly Kyle had stopped because _everyone_ had stopped talking to them. Except for Molly. And Rachel would still babysit, though their house was so far now she couldn't do it so much.

And he knew it was because of Uncle, because he was Michael Myers.

Mom had sat both of them down and told them the whole story. She had said that their Uncle had killed a lot of people when he was younger, a lot of his own family, and that was why she had a different name from him. She'd said she hadn't known for a long time that they were related, and then he had escaped and killed many more people before getting sent back to jail again, and that for a long, long time, she'd been afraid of him. She'd said she wasn't so scared anymore, that she didn't think their uncle would hurt them, but it was okay if they felt differently. And she'd said a lot of other people knew, and that was why they would look at them funny or talk about them differently.

It was why she'd moved them so far away, she'd said, so they wouldn't have to see that anymore. Even though it was to the same place where the weird doctor had driven them off the hill, where they'd been stuck in the car until it was blown up, where Mom had been hurt…

Jamie didn't like to go outside because of that, but John… he couldn't help _wanting_ to go outside. He didn't like to look at the place… but sometimes he really, really wanted to, wanted to walk over to the burnt out spot where the car had been, or look around in the grass where Mom had been hurt. Maybe if he looked hard enough, he could stop being so scared… or even change everything so it was like back to before.

John also wasn't sure if he was more or less scared after that talk. He had to remember that Jamie hadn't seen everything he had. He hadn't seen their uncle kill someone. Sometimes it was all he could think about. Once he had almost drawn a picture of it, until he realized his teacher wouldn't like it. He wondered if it had hurt, to be cut up like that. He'd tried asking Mom what happened to people after they died, but she'd said she didn't know. He'd even tried looking at her books, especially the ones about Uncle, but Mom had hidden them. And when he went to the school library, the librarian would always look at him funny if he went to certain sections.

Mom had told them that she would never, ever let Uncle hurt them.

And there was one more thing.

They didn't have neighbors at their new house, just fields and forest and more fields that all looked the same. There weren't even many lights, and they kept flickering in and out because nobody took care of them, according to Mom. So when it got dark and he was outside, it was really easy to get lost.

That had happened to John a couple weeks ago. He had been outside, trying to play but mostly staring at the spot where the car accident had been, and his ball had rolled off. He'd run off to retrieve it and thought he could find his way back, but then had realized he couldn't see the house because he had run down a hill and the grass was tall, and all of a sudden the sun was setting and it was getting very dark and very cold.

He'd wandered randomly for several minutes, getting more scared and more cold, and was just starting to wonder if he should start yelling for Mom, when he had walked – or crashed – into something big and hard and tall, and for a second he'd thought it was a tree but no, it was his uncle, who had been standing behind him.

John had yelped and almost started running in the opposite direction, except that he was chilly and tired from walking and very afraid of the dark and getting more lost, especially because the other way led only to trees. But his uncle hadn't really done anything. John couldn't really see him at all, but he remembered that his head _had_ been tilted down and having the funny feeling that Uncle was looking at him. But he still hadn't moved, or talked, and finally John had said,

"Um... I'm lost."

There had been a long, drawn out silence. Then his uncle had turned around and started walking. Or he did for about five feet before stopping, facing John, and staring at him. Only at that point had John realized: _Oh, I think he wants me to follow him_.

So he had, which was hard because Uncle was _very_ tall and walked _very_ fast, and all the grass he pushed out of the way would come flying back to whack John in the face, so he had to run to keep up with him only to keep getting slapped with wet grass – but then they were climbing up a hill and John had seen the porch light of the house, and he knew that his uncle had managed to lead him back there.

Said uncle had just turned around as soon as he saw John was atop the hill and started walking off, probably figuring that John knew where he was going now. But before he had left, John had dashed after him (but just a bit) and, gathering up all his courage, said, "Thank you… Uncle."

His uncle might have stopped walking for a moment. Might have tilted his hooded head just a bit, like he'd heard. John still wasn't sure. But then he'd straightened and gone on, and in a few seconds John hadn't been able to see him at all.

When Mom had asked, in a very worried voice, where he'd been, John had told her the truth. He'd thought she'd be angry, or scared, but she had only looked distant, and told him to go get ready for dinner. John had stayed close to the house after that, and he still did not like looking out windows… but he thought _maybe_ he could see why Jamie wasn't that scared anymore. That maybe _he_ wasn't that scared now.

Jamie tugged on his sleeve, pulling him out of his memory. "John, look."

He followed where she was pointing to, across the street, to a shape hidden just between some trees. There he was, just like always, watching.

Then they heard running, and Mom came up behind them, smiling tiredly, apologizing for being late, reminding them to grab their backpacks and lunchboxes. By the time they'd all gotten to the parking lot and piled into the car, John had almost forgotten about seeing his uncle. But Jamie didn't, and he saw her craning her neck behind her to look, just before they drove off. Pushing down his instinct not to, he looked out the window too. But their uncle was gone.

* * *

Haddonfield was emptying out.

It was evident even with Laurie living so far from the town. There were less teenagers walking the streets home from school. There were less children in her classroom with every passing month. There were less families shopping at the local grocery stores, less students doing research in the local library, less cars on the road every morning as she drove to work.

She knew it was because of what had happened on Halloween. Every family with children, every retired elderly couple, every resident who lived alone, was finding reasons to get out. Nobody felt safe, not with the knowledge that a known serial killer was walking the streets. Sheriff Barker had finally broken the news the day after Halloween, and a low tension had settled on the town. Nobody went out at night anymore. Police cars could be seen roaming the streets. Laurie knew the station had been inundated with calls the first few weeks from people who insisted they had seen Michael Myers skulking about in their backyard.

Some of it was no doubt true, which was why Laurie had chosen to move.

She had told her children it was to avoid the scrutiny of the town, and to an extent that was true. The whispers from her coworkers had become unnerving in those weeks after Halloween. People in the supermarket, the bookstore, the movie theater, would give her long, lingering looks full of blame. The vice principal had eyed her with trepidation every time she spoke. She'd even spotted some of her own students clustered in the hallways, stopping with guilty expressions on their faces when she looked at them. Jamie and John had told her that all their classmates were avoiding them too, that even their teachers had stopped calling on them. The parent-teacher conference Laurie had attended a month ago had never gone so quick, despite her children's failing grades and worrisome behavior, like Jamie and John's teachers had wanted nothing more than to get her out of their classroom as fast as possible.

All of that was part of the reason for moving, even though the house at Cherrywood Lane was probably the last place she wanted to go. She knew it had been the site of a traumatic event, both for her and her children; knew Jamie and John did not like being there; knew the move, just five months after Halloween, had been upsetting for their routines, was at least partially responsible for the changes in their schoolwork, their activities. She tried to justify it, telling herself that it had been cheap, that Annie and Mr. Brackett had been willing to let it go at a far cheaper price than she really deserved, that it was one of the few houses that was far from town that was not connected to a farm.

But there was a greater reason, confirmed when her children had whispered that they had seen a figure watching them at school or when she saw a dark shape outside her window.

Wherever she'd go, Michael would follow. So she would go as far away from the town as possible, and hope that her brother would leave its people alone. It was all she could do.

It had been difficult. First had been the long days of healing. She had spent two weeks in the hospital just going through all the surgeries and check-ups. Once she was let out, she'd had to spend a further week either lying in bed or moving very, very slowly so as not to re-open her wounds. Her children had visited every day while she was in the hospital, and she had probably annoyed the Carruthers to distraction with her constant phone calls.

Her leg had taken months to heal – in fact, the doctors had removed the cast the day before she had sold her house. Over ten years ago she had been forced to wear a heavy boot for her ankle after Michael… well, after she had hurt her ankle. But this had taken far longer and was definitely more of a hassle, forcing her to trundle about in a wheelchair or hobble on crutches everywhere.

Then there was the moving itself. With so many leaving, housing prices in the town had fallen; Laurie had had to sell her own house at a loss, and that process itself had taken longer than it should have. She then had to pack up everything to move into a house that was in the process of falling apart. There had been a few days where the power wouldn't go on, there was no hot water, or the heating had broken down. And with only herself and the twins to move in the furniture, it had taken some time to fully furnish the rooms – she was sure half their things were still packed away in boxes.

It had been strange to enter the house as well, to remember her old bedroom, Annie's old bedroom... the living room where Sheriff Brackett had told her the truth about her heritage. And outdoors, where she and Dr. Sartain and Michael had confronted each other...

But it was far from town, and she would take anything to lighten the burden she had placed on herself.

She had stopped following the local news; she didn't want to know about mysterious disappearances or violent deaths anymore. She didn't want to wonder if a teenager vanishing without a trace was due to an accident, running away, or something more sinister. And she did not need Jamie or John to see anything violent, to have any reminders of what they had experienced. So she tried to fill their days with activities (puzzles, coloring, trips to libraries and bookstores and theaters, movie nights, game nights… anything to keep out the empty night), to stick to their old routines, to talk to them freely and hold them when they were scared and reassure them that nothing would ever happen to them.

There had already been one incident. She'd been driving home at night – she'd had a meeting, Rachel had been babysitting the twins. It had been in the fields, she might have missed it if not for the fact that the victims had been driving a gigantic truck with multiple high beams which had illuminated the shape in the darkness – drawn his outline, black against the white lamps, arm raised up, swinging a knife down.

Laurie had never run so fast in her life as then.

She hadn't been able to save the two men, but she'd been able to save the girl and her dog. The girl had been hysterical, babbling something about how her father and husband had seen a bum wandering their land for the last few days and had tried to teach him a lesson this night, only for the bum to start fighting back.

Laurie had almost gagged at the sight of one of the men, impaled on the antlers that had decorated the hood of the truck.

_Go! Get out of here, get out of here, now!_

In the time it took for Laurie to throw herself in front of the girl, for Michael to shove her aside, she'd managed to buy a few precious seconds of distraction. Enough time for the sobbing girl to get back in her truck and tear off across the fields.

_Enough, Michael! Enough! Enough._

She'd known then, by the stance of his body and the weight of his glare at her, that she'd come close, terribly close to overreaching his limits. He had not even acknowledged her presence, had turned his back on her and disappeared across the fields. But she'd saved the girl. The two men, those would stay with her forever, but the girl at least would not.

For the next few days, she had kept waiting for a police car to pull up to her house for questioning, but there had been nothing. Perhaps it had been so dark and frenetic that the girl had never gotten a close look at her face. Perhaps she did not want to relive the experience, wanted to pretend the two men had simply disappeared. Laurie had later read in the paper about a freak tractor accident...

She had watched, especially, to see if it would be Hawkins pulling up to her door, questioning her. Laurie had seen him a couple of times, usually just passing him by in a store, out on the street. He did not ignore her like the other townspeople, but he did not greet her either, just fixed her with a level gaze. She always did the same. She was surprised he had not set officers watching the house; perhaps he thought it so isolated it would be instantly noticed, or the sheriff did not want him wasting resources on following her.

She wondered what he was doing. If he was still watching for Michael, waiting for his chance.

When they reached home, Jamie and John pulled her aside and told her they had seen their uncle outside their school. In a whisper, Jamie also said she had gone up to him, how he had responded to her. Laurie nodded and sent them to their rooms to do homework. She waited until they were upstairs, then pulled aside the curtain of the window, looking out into the surrounding forest.

Nothing to be seen. But she knew he was there.

She saw him almost every day now. At first, she had thought it was her paranoia, her trauma returning as it did those first few years, when every movement seemed to be him. Slowly she had realized it really was him out there, that when she would shut her eyes to will his image away, he would remain.

Laurie thought that should frighten her. Several years ago it would have. Now, she only felt… what? Acceptance? Resignation? Or maybe just relief, because if he was here, then at least he was not near Haddonfield. At least she knew he was not killing innocent people.

Jamie and John had claimed to have seen him multiple times in other locations, but she most often saw him here, near her home. She thought it was partially because the schools were too near the town, too near people who might recognize him – but she had to admit that Michael had never particularly seemed to care who saw him. And he had his methods for dealing with those who tried to do something about it.

No, most likely he was here because _she_ was here.

Over eleven years ago, he had brought Laurie to the Myers house – _their_ old home. Laurie wondered now if there had been some kind of transferal of allegiance – if out on that field, when she had returned his photos to him, she had signaled something only his mind could comprehend, if he now thought of this location as "home". It was hard to say how she felt about that.

Dr. Beckett had suggested that Michael might be released, come live with her. She had reacted with horror to that suggestion. But now that she was virtually living that life… the fact that she didn't find it upsetting… well, perhaps it showed the extent to which anyone could become used to something.

Laurie opened the fridge, trying to resume her normal schedule. Dinner, then help Jamie and John with homework, some grading, maybe a cheerful children's movie to wrap up the night. She set a pot boiling, her thoughts drifting as she skinned and sliced vegetables.

There had been one other incident.

A few weeks after they had moved in, Laurie had seen a car parked a little off the road near the house. It had driven up sometime in the evening and just idled there for hours. She hadn't dared go out – she was a single mother, alone in the house with two children, far from any neighbors, and there were many in town who knew it. She had not thought of calling the police, had not wanted to face Hawkins's flat look. Instead, she had locked all the doors and windows, kept the lights on downstairs, and had Jamie and John bundle all together into her bed, her bedroom door locked with a chair up against the knob and a telephone plugged into her nightstand. Throughout that sleepless night, she had considered getting some kind of guard dog…

The next day, the car had remained where it was parked, but shut off. It had been the weekend; Laurie had not dared to leave the house, thinking she might come back to find it robbed... but it had not moved. Not that day, or the next, or the one after, when she had finally had to leave for work, Jamie and John for school. When she drove by, she had not seen anyone sitting in the car... just, ominously, a broken window.

When she returned that afternoon, she'd finally given in and called the police to report the car. They had arrived – perhaps a few minutes delayed, though that might have been her imagination. There had been a check around the area, quite routine, before they sent someone to tow the car. She'd never found out who the car belonged to, though she'd heard a couple rumors, of men missing from another town, of a minor uptick in break-ins before they disappeared, of police looking for evidence of foul play. Beyond that… she did not want to know.

Sometimes she imagined her brother walking in a radius around the house, like some kind of terrifying barrier of protectiveness – possessiveness. Or was it around her?

How long would it last? As long as he lived? As long as _she_ lived?

When she had been in the hospital, her doctor had casually mentioned that had a bullet hit her liver, or an artery, or her spine, she might have been paralyzed or comatose or dead. Michael was ten years older than her, by all rights he should die before her, and that was assuming he just dropped dead of natural causes rather than a more violent death… but what if she died first, through accident or illness? What if she was indeed the only remaining link Michael had to his humanity – and he lost her? What would happen to the town? She tried to imagine a completely unhinged Michael wreaking his rage on Haddonfield, but always shuddered away from the horrible fantasy.

And what about her children? Did he truly only see them as extensions of her who would lose any protection they had upon her death? Or did he actually see them as separate beings, worthy like her, for some inconceivable reason, of his special regard?

She did not know, and the only person who did would never tell her.

Evening fell; she finished dinner, ate with Jamie and John. They completed their homework , had their bath, took a little time to watch half a movie. Finishing their homework – that was a bit of a new one. She could only hope her twins would remember to _bring_ it – work completion at school was becoming an issue for them, though she thought they were improving. Laurie considered again pulling them out and placing them in some kind of home schooling. There were several reputable programs with approved curriculum that she could use, and it would keep them close to her, help them recover until they were ready to return to their old school… if they ever did. And she would soon have plenty of time on her hands, if the school kept losing students – she was one of the younger teachers, and sooner or later there would not be enough children to justify keeping her on...

She looked out the window then, just out of habit, and saw him. Waiting.

Jamie and John were in bed by the time she headed outside.

He had never come into the house; he'd never tried, she'd never invited him to. She didn't try to interact with him more than necessary, didn't leave food out, as if he were a wild animal she was trying to feed and tame. She didn't know anything about how he spent his day, other than watching her and her children; didn't know what areas he frequented, where he slept, how he cared for himself.

She just knew he was always there.

And sometimes, he would come to her.

That, she knew now, had been at the heart of Dr. Sartain's obsession, him and Dr. Beckett and Dr. Loomis and the journalists, all of them trying to categorize their relationship. The non-entity. The victim. The sister. The only person Michael listened to. She wondered which of them had come closest to the truth, how correct any of them were. Perhaps all of them; perhaps none of them. Perhaps it was as simple as the fact that she had something he craved, something she had needed as well, a nebulous sensation she had caught the edges of that Halloween night, as she had stood in that field and rested against him and he against her. She thought that maybe she brought a peace to him, a quiet to whatever was raging in his mind.

Laurie didn't know if she was right. She didn't know why, or how he chose when to come, knew she'd never get an answer even if she asked. She just knew that he did. Like her other burden, she had come to accept her strange, contradictory role in his life, without needing to dissect its precise nature.

From the moment she'd been born, she'd occupied an unreachable, unfathomable place in his mind, and that was where she would remain, for as long as either of them lived.

She stood on the porch, the lights dimmed down so that it barely illuminated the area beyond the house. She stood and waited, peering into the night. Though she could not see, she could sense his approach, the crunch of his footsteps on the grass, the growing weight of his gaze, his presence.

The footsteps slowed, stopped.

He stood there now in front of her, a hooded figure in a ragged coat, gazing at her, just outlined by the dim porch light. She took one step down to draw nearer. The porch was high enough that she was almost at his level, perhaps a little taller than his shoulder.

Slowly, she raised a hand and pushed back his hood, felt and moved aside some hair. It was too dark to see his face clearly, but she knew at least that he was not wearing the mask. For a moment they stood there, letting the memories, the thoughts, float around them and drift away.

Laurie rested a hand on his arm, not tight enough to grip. Nevertheless, he sensed it, and she felt him lean into her touch. She tilted her head towards him, and he in turn moved his body towards her, close enough to feel one another. As she looked up, regarded him, she thought she could make out the shadows of his hair, the barest trace of his face. His body blocked out everything else, the light, the stars, the moon.

She lowered her head and felt him press closer. His coat brushed against her forehead; she could feel the warmth of his body heat. She breathed, felt him breathe as well.

She said, "Hello, Michael."

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote! EXCEPT... for this monster of an author's note.
> 
> First, I want to say a massive thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story and Rules of Conduct. I genuinely never thought either of these stories would get even half the number of glowing reviews they've received, or that it would become one of my popular fics. I just want everyone to know that I read every one of them and that they all make me smile, and that I go back periodically and reread some of them when I'm having a bad day. Half the reason I eventually wrote a sequel was because of them, though I did become ludicrously nervous over whether this one would measure up to the first. I hope it has.
> 
> I also want to apologize to any fans of Karen and Allyson's characters from the 2018 movie. I really did try to include Karen in the story (Allyson was impossible given that Laurie's age in this story makes her way too young to be a grandmother), but I was hampered by the fact that I'd killed off Laurie's husband in Rules of Conduct and couldn't think of a way for Laurie to suddenly get a baby without it coming off as OOC. I felt bad, because Karen has huge potential to be important and an interesting contrast to Jamie and John's character, but it just didn't work. If I really regret it, I'll retcon her in somehow.
> 
> Finally, a couple of little things I wanted to bring up. 1) Find all the random references to other Halloween movies! I went a little overboard with that. 2) Names are important! Names of chapter and the names people use to refer to Laurie. Again, way too much fun with that. 3) Whereas I thought of Rules of Conduct as having a more out-and-out happy ending, I did try to make this one a bit more ambiguous. Don't know if I succeeded, but that was my intent.
> 
> And lastly, I have no intentions of writing a sequel to this one, but given there are two more Halloween movies coming out, I'll probably end up changing my mind...


End file.
